


the very tender and the brave

by celestialskiff



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Age Play, Alternate Universe - No Beast (The Magicians), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bed-Wetting, Blow Jobs, Codependency, Cuddling & Snuggling, Daddy Kink, Depression, Diapers, Dom/Sub AU, Dom/sub, Drug Addiction, F/F, Finger Sucking, Fluff, Foursome - F/F/F/M, From Chapter 31 -, Frottage, Hair-pulling, Hand & Finger Kink, Kissing, Kneeling, M/M, Makeup, Neediness, Non-Romantic Intimacy, Omorashi, Pacifiers, Platonic Cuddling, Polyamory, Protective Margo Hanson, Rimming, Service Top, Soft soft so very soft, Spanking, Stuffed Toys, Sub Alice, Sub Quentin Coldwater, Telling Quentin Coldwater what to do because he loves it, Threesome, Top Eliot Waugh, Top Julia, Top Margo, Wetting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:13:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 38
Words: 83,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24095650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestialskiff/pseuds/celestialskiff
Summary: “Why are you being so nice to me?”“Because you’re cute, of course.”No-Beast AU. D/s AU, in which needy submissive Quentin enters Brakebills and does his best to navigate an intense new relationship with service top, Eliot, alongside learning magic and figuring out his friendship with Julia.
Relationships: Alice Quinn/Julia Wicker, Kady Orloff-Diaz/Alice Quinn, Quentin Coldwater & Julia Wicker, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater/Margo Hanson/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 406
Kudos: 338





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yourtinseltinkerbell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourtinseltinkerbell/gifts).



> I’ve been struggling to write anything, and I decided to work on something very self-indulgent, and to use short chapters to make things more manageable for myself. So I’m writing the D/s AU of my secret fantasies. It will have lots of touching, gentle domination, and codependence. Includes some ageplay and wetting content in later chapters, which I'll warn for. Everyone in this is extremely soft. 
> 
> Dedicated to yourtinseltinkerbell -- thank you for constantly cheering me on, helping me come up with these ideas, and making this fic possible. 
> 
> Note: Penny is a jerk in Chapter 1, but there is no character bashing in this fic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Note, October 2020:** I began this fic in March 2020. I was having trouble writing anything, and I challenged myself to write chapters of only 1K and to post them within a few weeks of writing. That means the first few chapters are shorter and much more staccato than my usual work, but this method did help me to focus and start writing again. As the fic progresses, my writing style becomes a lot smoother.

The most embarrassing part is – 

Well, maybe there’s no “most embarrassing part”. It’s just _all_ humiliating. 

But there’s something extra terrible about the fact that Quentin’s first instinct is to run to Julia. When they’ve been fighting – fighting on and off _for months_ – about her being too protective, she’s still the person he wants for. Well, for protection. 

His face is hot, tears beginning, and his new room mate is still yelling at him, “You had better learn some fucking wards. You cried this morning because you couldn’t find your shoes! You want to kneel for every goddamn top you meet. I can _feel_ the tears on your face right now, and I don’t want to. You’d better sort this shitshow out. If I have to think about you going on your knees again, I’ll break your arm.” 

Quentin – can’t deal with it. As usual, he can’t think of a single word to use in his own defence. Instead, he flees. 

When rooms were assigned to the new students, Julia was pointed upstairs while Quentin stayed on the same floor. So instinct sends him running up the stairs, trying to ignore the pounding in his brain, the mixture of shame and inadequacy and need for comfort. 

He should just go home. Subs aren’t cut out for magic school. The Dean basically told him so. 

He skids to a halt at the top of the stairs, nearly crashing into a tall, dark-haired woman. She radiates BDE. Quentin gulps. 

“What do you want?” She sizes him up like he’s terrible canteen food, but when she inhales her face softens very slightly. 

So clearly he’s reeking of it. His needy, clingy submissiveness. If everyone can smell it. Wonderful. 

“Julia,” he gulps out. “I’m looking for my friend Julia?” 

She raises her eyebrows slightly. “I’m her room mate,” she says. She looks like maybe she’s going to tell him to go back downstairs, and he doesn’t know what he’ll do then, except jump out a window, but she says, “I’ll take you to her.”

Julia’s unpacking. She’s standing calmly in her room, putting blazers in her wardrobe like a – like a normal person. But she turns when she hears them, and she says, “Oh, Q,” and holds out her arms and – well, he came up here because he needed a hug, didn’t he? 

He falls into her open arms. She rubs his back, and leads him gently to the bed. They sit side by side, and Quentin’s aware of how familiar this is, clinging to Julia, hiding his face in her, and also how fucked up it is. Because he’s supposed to be doing better than _this_ , isn’t he? Better than hiding behind Julia all the time? 

“It’s been a big day, huh,” Julia says, and he can feel her breath against his scalp, and despite himself he worms closer, resting his cheek against her chest. She smells safe and familiar, and he’s contained by her arms even though she’s smaller than he is, and when she puts her hand on the back of his neck, he just wants to slide onto his knees and let go. 

“My room mate...” Quentin begins, and squirms. He realises he’s still wearing his satchel, the buckles pressing into his chest. He’s glad it’s there though. Who knows what Penny might do to it. 

“What about your room mate?” Even with his face hidden, Quentin recognises the voice of the woman who brought him to Julia’s room. 

Quentin sniffles. 

“Q, baby, do you want to get on your knees for me?” Julia asks, all gentle and understanding, like she’s his top and he’s meant to kneel for her. 

But she is _a top_ , and she’s asking him to kneel, and it happens so easily. Like stepping into a bath that’s the perfect temperature, or taking a shot. Before he knows it, he’s on the floor beside her, pressed into the narrow student bed. 

Julia’s fingers card through his hair. He leans into her, looking up. 

“Is he your boyfriend?” the woman asks. 

“This is Quentin, he’s my best friend,” Julia says, and her voice is so gentle and fond, like they’ve never fought. Quentin nuzzles her knee gratefully. 

“I’m Kady,” she says, sitting on the opposite bed. Looks across at them. “What happened, Quentin?” 

Her voice is sharp, ungentle. Quentin can already tell she would be a different kind of top from Julia. Kneeling like this, he finds himself anticipating it, imagining her pulling his hair, exposing his throat. 

He swallows. “It’s, uh...” He wants to say it’s stupid, but Julia’s very firm about him not belittling himself. He concentrates on her fingers in his hair. His voice feels like it’s coming from somewhere far away. “It’s, uh. My room mate. He said he could read my mind? Which is... crazy. And it made me feel... Anyway he said he’d.... He said he hated my – thoughts, and he’d – break my arm if I – didn’t learn how to ward myself?” 

Quentin hugs his satchel closer. His stuff is in there: his pyjamas, his book, his meds, his toy lamb. 

“What the fuck,” Julia says, her body going rigid as steel against him. 

Kady makes a noise too, not quite a word. Then she says, “That’s not cool.” 

“No, it’s really fucking not –” Julia makes to stand up, going into protective mode. 

“Please, Jules,” Quentin says. “I can – Let me handle it.” 

Julia makes a noise of – frustration. “You can’t treat me like your top and not let me act like your top.” 

It’s a conversation they’ve had twenty times in the past month. Quentin wants to bang his head off the bed frame. He’s so bad. He’s so bad at being a sub. He’s so bad at taking care of himself. He wants and wants and – 

“You’re not my top,” he says, very softly. 

“I’m going to cut in, because this seems like a very long and personal conversation that you guys need to have,” Kady says. “But not right now. It’s – rude as fuck not to have wards up. Magicians protect themselves.” 

Quentin’s very grateful to her for the distraction. 

“But we just got here!” Julia snaps. “And he’s a – It’s not OK to threaten anyone.” 

“I know,” Kady says. “That guy’s an asshole. We’ll deal with him. But I’m also going to teach your boy how to protect himself. And you to protect yourself, too.” 

She rubs her head with her hand. Looks at them both, appraisingly. Quentin feels very small.

“Fucking amateurs,” she says.


	2. Chapter 2

Afterwards, Quentin takes a nap in Julia’s bed. The room already smells like a mixture of her pheromones and Kady’s, and he feels safe. He pulls Lamb into his arms, nuzzles into Julia’s bedclothes, welcomes oblivion. 

His head is pounding from Kady’s lessons. But before she left, Julia soothed him by playing with his hair and patting his butt and telling him he was doing well and – that’s embarrassing as fuck too, but it also felt really good, and he can relax now. 

Julia and Kady didn’t say where they were going, but Quentin suspects it was to talk to Penny. Quentin wonders if he can sleep on Julia’s floor all year. He can think of worse places. He also wishes he could deal with Penny himself, but – well. Maybe Julia _is_ better equipped to handle him.

When he wakes up, he’s hungry and his mouth is dry. The room is dark. He misses his old bedroom, with the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling, and his books by his bed. He puts Lamb back into his satchel, finds his socks and shoes. Wonders what to do. 

He’s still wondering what to do twenty minutes later when he collides with Eliot. 

“It’s you,” Eliot says. 

Quentin looks up at him, absurdly pleased that he remembers. 

Eliot blows out cigarette smoke. Still sizing him up. “Are you lost?” 

“No,” Quentin says. “I don’t think so. I don’t know. Did I miss dinner?” 

“What happened to your hair?” Eliot says. 

Quentin doesn’t know what happened to his hair. He pats it, but it just feels like hair. “Nothing?” 

Eliot inhales. He looks really good when he smokes. 

“Are you hungry?” 

Quentin nods. He’s not always great at recognising when he’s hungry, but he doesn’t remember eating anything since a banana that morning, so he assumes he probably is hungry. 

Eliot’s arm suddenly goes around Quentin shoulder. He’s – so solid, so much bigger than Quentin. He smells so good. Like cigarettes and pheromones. Quentin could just – go to his knees right here. He’s tired and it’s overwhelming and he just wants to rub his cheek against Eliot’s leg and have Eliot tell him he’s a good boy. 

He swallows hard. Tries to act like a normal person. Tries not to prove all the things people say to discredit subs are actually true. 

“Fear not,” Eliot says. “Daddy will find you dinner.” 

And that – goes through Quentin like a shot of whiskey. Eliot’s voice is light, teasing, but Quentin hears _Daddy_ , and it – shouldn’t be affecting him like this. 

Eliot doesn’t lead him back towards the school, but Quentin is content to follow him down the unlit path, Eliot’s arm steering him. He’s tongue-tied when they get to the house – Eliot calls it ‘the Cottage’ – with its lights and smell of alcohol and the actual fire crackling in the actual fireplace. 

“Take a seat,” Eliot says, when they get into the kitchen. He’s opening the refrigerator, bending to stare directly into it. Quentin looks at the line of his back, the slim thighs. Swallows again. 

“An omelette,” Eliot says, after a moment. “Lots of protein for a growing boy. Cheese?” 

The words barely seem to mean anything. _Get yourself together,_ Quentin thinks for the hundredth time that day. “Cheese?” 

“Would you like cheese in your omelette?” Eliot gets out a frying pan, a cheese-grater. Opens the carton of eggs. 

“Sorry, I – Cheese is great.” 

“It’s OK.” Eliot’s voice is surprisingly tender. “It would be a big day for anyone.” 

After he’s eaten, Quentin feels a bit more solid. He sips the wine Eliot has poured for him, wondering if Eliot’s mouth tastes the same way. He’s praised Eliot twice for his cooking, and Eliot’s looked pleased, as though Quentin’s opinion actually matters to him. When they head into the living room, to the fireplace, Quentin finds himself yawning. 

“Should I be bringing you home to bed?” Eliot asks. 

Quentin flinches. He doesn’t want to tell Eliot the whole stupid story. “Julia might be wondering where I am,” he says, but he doesn’t want to leave the flickering fire, or Eliot’s presence. 

“Is she your top?” 

Quentin shakes his head, wondering how many time he’s going to have to answer that question today. “We’ve been best friends since we were kids.” 

“But she takes care of you?” Eliot’s voice is gentle. He takes another sip of wine. 

Quentin picks at a lose thread on his sleeve. “Sometimes. I, uh... We fight about it. She doesn’t want to be m-my top, really, but she. Also tries to boss me around?” 

“Well.” Eliot leans back in the chair, looking at Quentin out of the corner of his eye. “Clearly someone has to.” 

Quentin wants to argue with that, but he doesn’t have a lot of evidence to back himself up. He clenches his hands together. He feels like crying again, which would prove Eliot’s point. He blinks quickly, staring at the fire. 

“Hey.” Eliot touches his arm. “It’s OK to need help. I wasn’t trying to make you feel bad.”

“Should I even be here?” Quentin says. “They-they didn’t want to let me in when they realised I was a sub. And I’ve just been fucking things up since I got here. They said there would be a lot of stress involved, and I. Historically, I’ve done horribly with stress.” He swallows. “Are there even any subs in your class?” 

“Four of them,” Eliot says. “And of course you should be here.” His fingers press into Quentin’s arm. Firm. “The administration tries to make us all feel inadequate. They find our weaknesses.” 

“That sounds... terrible.” Quentin feels a heat of panic in his chest. This mixture of pain and excitement and too-much-ness. “And unethical.”

Eliot snorts. “They don’t care about ethics. So we find friends. And we make our own rules.” 

Quentin isn’t sure he’s going to be good at that, either. He swallows more wine. “Why are you being so nice to me?” 

“Because you’re cute, of course. And I have a soft spot for sweet, good boys.”


	3. Chapter 3

Quentin’s room-mate is lying on the larger of the two beds, blasting heavy metal. 

Kady raises her hand, moves three fingers rapidly, and the music stops, which. Julia has to admit is fascinating, and also a little bit hot. 

He looks up. He can only be described as a total snack, and Julia is surprised that Quentin neglected to mention this. He’s rarely so intimidated that he fails to pick up on someone being hot. 

“What,” he says, enunciating carefully, “the fuck.” 

Kady’s looking at the boxes on the floor. She nudges one open with her foot, peers in. It seems to be full of scarves. 

“Oh, yeah, go through my stuff. That’s a way to make friends.” He slides off the bed and upright in one fluid motion. 

“Penny, right?” says Julia. She holds out her hand. “I’m Julia.” 

He doesn’t acknowledge her. He’s crowding into Kady’s space. “What are you doing in my room?”

“That’s kind of the point,” Julia says. “It’s not just your room. Is it?”

“Seems like my room,” Penny says, finally acknowledging her. Julia inhales. He’s posturing like a top, but there’s something else there. Maybe it’s just the lingering scent of Quentin’s fear. 

“We want to know,” Kady says, jutting her chin out, “What kind of cockless dumbass thinks it’s OK to threaten subs like that. We wanted to take a picture. Carry out a study, maybe. Julia here is kind of a nerd.” 

Julia wondered how she figured _that_ out so fast. Maybe it’s the blazer. 

“You mean the little pussy who was in here?” Penny shrugs. “I just told him to tighten his wards. His anxiety was making me itch.” 

“So you thought giving him more anxiety was the answer?” Julia steps closer, positioning Penny between Kady and herself. 

“Wow.” Penny looked at her. “Is this your first time putting up wards? I’m not sure what you’re radiating at me, but it’s intense.” 

“She’s learning,” Kady says, on the other side of Penny. “But I can already tell there’s a lot of firepower in that little body. Meanwhile, I’m not learning. I know what I’m doing.” 

“So now we’re playing who has the biggest cock?” Penny’s beginning to smile, which wasn’t what Julia expected. 

“I don’t want to threaten you,” Julia says. She pulls out Penny’s desk chair and sits on it. “I just don’t want you to threaten Quentin, either. We need to figure this out, like adults.” 

Penny rolls his eyes. “You ruined it. This was getting kind of hot.” 

Kady whacks him on the back of his head. “It wasn’t supposed to be hot, asshole.” 

“I don’t know.” Penny sits down, too, on the edge of his bed. “Kind of felt the beginning of a porno. Two angry tops come in, intimidate the poor submissive. Make him beg.” 

“You’re not a...” Kady begins, and pauses. 

She looks at Julia. “I think he is,” Julia says. “He’s still a dick though.” 

“Look.” Penny folds his hands. “Your friend is just the kind of needy little brat I can’t stand. He makes the rest of us look bad. But I can try to go easy on him. As a favour to you.” 

Julia can feel something bubbling in the air between them: like maybe they’re going to be friends, the three of them. But she’s heard Quentin say exactly what Penny said, just now, so many times: _I’m all wrong. I make other subs look bad, because I’m too vulnerable. Too needy. I should check myself into a facility and never come out._

“Quentin can’t help being the way he is,” she says. “Like you can’t help being the way you are. It’s assholes like you that make him so anxious in the first place.” She’s tired, suddenly. She’s tired of worrying about Quentin. “You’re a bully: being a sub doesn’t make you not a bully. If it weren’t for people like you I wouldn’t have had to...” She doesn’t finish the sentence. They’re not her stories to tell. _He wouldn’t be so hurt if people like you didn’t hurt him. I wouldn’t have had to visit him in hospital when we were sixteen, and then again at twenty._

They’re both looking at her. Then Penny says, more softly than he’s spoken before, “You need to keep working on those wards.” 

Julie feels like crying. It’s been a long day. She breathes. 

“He seems cute, your friend,” Kady says. “He shouldn’t have to feel bad for not being like Tough Guy here. But he’s also going to have a really hard time here if he doesn’t work out how to take care of himself.” 

“That’s what people have been saying to him all of his life.” Julia stares past her, out the window, at the tiny strip of wall and sky. “It doesn’t make him any better at it.” 

Penny sits down on the edge of his bed, looking from one to the other. “This conversation is going in a very boring and emotional direction. If I promise to go easy on him, can we go to the herbalist party everyone’s been talking about?” 

Kady glances at Julia. Julia shrugs. “I could use a drink,” she says at last. She could always use a drink.

Kady grins. “Come on. Maybe we’ll even dance with you.” 

Julia likes that, that they’re a _we._ For a second, she wonders what it would be like to kiss Kady. Kady nipping her lips. And Penny. Pushing Penny down onto his knees between them, his mouth wet and ready. She swallows, and feels Kady’s eyes on her. That slow grin again. 

“Come on, Wicker,” Kady says. “Let’s get you a drink.”


	4. Chapter 4

When Eliot says that he’s cute, Quentin feels himself flush. He wants to sink onto the floor. He wonders what sitting in Eliot’s lap would be like, how his skin would taste. How his crotch would smell, or his armpit. 

Instead, he swallows and says, “I don’t think I’m very good. I’m – Like I said, I’m always fucking everything up.” 

Eliot’s eyes look dark in the firelight. He meets Quentin’s gaze. “I’ll let you in on a secret: me too.” 

Quentin can’t imagine that at _all._ He’s seen Eliot’s _clothes_. Eliot moves around this house like it’s _his,_ he orchestrates Quentin, he understands _magic._

“But it’s all right,” Eliot says. “Mistakes make us human.” 

His tone is soft, teasing. But he’s looking at Quentin like he’s trying to impart something important. Quentin isn’t sure what. The timbre of Eliot’s voice makes him feel shivery: he’s felt like this before, but never so intensely. 

“What do you need?” As though Eliot knows that Quentin always needs _something_. That he’s a bottomless pit of needs. That he’s never content, that he’s always jangly and anxious, even on the days when he should be most excited. 

Quentin rubs his mouth with his hand. “It’s stupid.” 

“Come on.” There’s a tiny edge to Eliot’s voice, and Quentin imagines that this is how he speaks when he’s with a sub and the sub is taking too long to respond to an order. 

And Quentin’s immediate instinct is not to disappoint Eliot. “C-can I sit with you?” 

Eliot makes a sound in his throat that’s almost like a purr. Then he coughs. As though _he’s_ embarrassed. “Come here.” 

Sinking against Eliot, basically onto his lap. His head fits so easily against Eliot’s shoulder. The line of Eliot’s throat so close he could lick it. The smell of Eliot – Quentin’s small, melting, fitting into Eliot’s body. 

Eliot’s arm settles around him. Quentin’s not sure if he feels safe, or turned on, or both. Maybe one leads to the other. His nose brushes against Eliot’s neck, and without thinking about it, he’s nuzzling Eliot’s skin. God, Eliot smells good. 

Then Quentin stiffens, feeling himself grow hot. Should he have done that? He draws away, not sure whether to apologise. 

“Hey,” Eliot says, and cups Quentin’s chin, tilting his head up. 

Then they’re kissing. 

Eliot’s mouth covers his own: wine, smoke, hard and tender at the same time. His big hand holds the back of Quentin’s neck. Quentin whimpers through his mouth, softening in Eliot’s arms, inviting him in, and further in. 

He moans, too, when Eliot draws away. Eliot is looking at him like he’s – like he’s something special. He can feel Eliot’s hard cock under his butt. His own crotch throbs in response. He wants – god, he _wants._

“Is this good?” Eliot asks. 

Quentin nods. It’s better than good. 

Eliot traces Quentin’s jaw with one finger. Quentin raises his chin automatically, exposing his throat. 

“Oh, you’re a good boy,” Eliot says, sounding almost wondering. “Do you have a safe word?” 

Quentin shuts his eyes for a second. Processing. For a long time, he just used ‘safe word’, but Julia said that wasn’t enough. “Raisins,” he says, mouth drying as he says it. “But I don’t...” 

He wants to say he doesn’t need it, but that’s not exactly true. He’s never felt like it was worth using. 

Eliot twists his fingers in Quentin’s hair. “What do you like to do?” 

Quentin doesn’t know. It’s so much. He wants.... He takes Eliot’s hand, the one not touching his hair, and sucks Eliot’s finger into his mouth. Eliot’s long finger, so strong: it feels so good in his mouth. A burst of heat in his groin, a pulse. At the same time, it’s comfort: he’s beginning to get the good feeling, like he’s sinking into honey. 

“Do you want to suck my cock, baby?” Eliot says. “Is that what you want?” 

As soon as he says it, it’s all Quentin wants. “Please,” he mumbles, voice distorted by the finger. 

He’s not sure if Eliot guides him to his knees, or if he drops down on his own. Suddenly he’s between Eliot’s legs, rubbing his face against Eliot’s groin, his thigh, smelling Eliot’s pheromones, feeling the heat of his arousal. Quentin moans, sinking down inside himself, as he sniffs and rubs at the cloth. Nuzzling. 

“Help me out of my pants,” Eliot says. 

When the pants are pushed down, lost somewhere on the floor, Quentin is rubbing his face against Eliot’s skin, his thighs, his cock. He licks the head of Eliot’s cock, tasting it. Eliot’s big, his cock hot and hard, jumping at Quentin’s touch. Quentin shuts his eyes, mouth wet, drooling, losing himself in the feeling. 

Eliot holds the back of Quentin’s head, threading his hair between his fingers. At first the hand remains there, steady, as Quentin sucks, and then he begins to guide Quentin’s head back and forth, his cock bobbing in and out of Quentin’s lips. He doesn’t move his hips, just guides Quentin’s head, and he’s exquisitely careful, treating Quentin almost too gently. Quentin relaxes into the touch, the rhythm. 

Time stretches. His jaw aches, he drools, but he could do this forever. 

Voice rough, rougher than his touch, Eliot says, “I’m going to come.” 

Quentin surges forward, mouth open. 

“Jesus. Do you want me to come on your face? Is that what you like?”

Quentin barely understands words any more. He’s nodding, his own cock pressing into the seam of his pants. He wants to belong to Eliot, smell like Eliot, be marked by Eliot. 

Eliot’s come lands, hot, on his lips, in his mouth, on his chin. He keeps licking Eliot’s cock, tongues the come, the bitter, salty taste. There’s so much, he doesn’t swallow it, he wants it on his face, the smell of Eliot on his skin, the feel of him. His eyes are closed, all he knows right now is Eliot. 

Eliot’s cock softens in his mouth. He feels Eliot gently guide his face away, and he hears himself whimper. He’s very small and very safe. Pressing his face into Eliot’s thigh. Smell of semen. Taste of semen. He’s kneeling for Eliot, that’s all he needs to do. He feels Eliot’s fingers in his hair. He thinks he’s crying but that’s – OK. 

“You’re so good,” Eliot’s saying, exactly what he needs to hear. “So good for me. Look at you: I’m all over your face.” 

He sounds happy about it. He thumbs the semen on Quentin chin, and it trickles onto his neck. “We’ll have to wash you.” 

Quentin doesn’t care what Eliot says as long as he keeps touching him. He’s barely aware of his own arousal until he realises Eliot’s climbing from his chair, kneeling next to Quentin, undoing the button of his pants. “Do you want me to make you come, little boy?” 

Quentin nods again, surging into Eliot’s touch. His cock is small, much smaller than Eliot’s, and Eliot makes a sound of approval when he sees it – approval and wanting. “Lie back,” he says, and Quentin does as he’s told. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the fire dying to embers. 

Eliot’s mouth is so hot and so wet. Quentin’s hips stutter, and he tries to keep still. Eliot says, “That’s right, fuck my mouth. You’re so small, you can do what you like.” 

Quentin knows he’s not _that_ small, but he obeys Eliot: he’s thrusting, whimpering. He’s wound up tight, eager, pushed over the edge by the smell of Eliot on his skin. 

He’s coming, shivering, lost to himself. He feels honey wash over him. 

Later, he’s aware of Eliot washing his face with a warm, mint-scented cloth. 

“You can get up,” Eliot’s saying. “Baby, it’s OK, you can get up.” 

But he can’t. He can’t. He’s – he’s finally safe. “Please don’t make me.” It’s so hard to move his tongue. He’s not sure which words are right. 

Eliot’s beside him, resting his forehead against Quentin’s. Worried “What can I do?” he says. 

Quentin reaches for Eliot’s hand. Lifts it carefully to his lips, sucks Eliot’s pointer finger into his mouth again. He doesn’t know how else to say it. He hears himself moan, sucking, nuzzling Eliot’s wrist. 

“OK,” Eliot says. Soft and – scared almost. Which is scary too, because how can he be scared? He’s the one in charge. He’s the one who knows what to do. “All right. You’re going to come upstairs with me. We’re going to get ready for bed. Pyjamas, toothbrushes, the whole deal. And then you’ll – sleep with me. I mean, in my bed with me.” 

Quentin nods. Feels better now that there’s a plan. He sighs around Eliot’s finger, and lets Eliot draw it from his mouth. Eliot’s looking at him, big-eyed, red-cheeked. Hair sweaty. Quentin follows him upstairs. 

He lies in sheets that smell of Eliot. As he drifts off, he turns, pressing his face into Eliot’s armpit. Sleeps without dreaming.


	5. Chapter 5

Julia hugs him as soon as she sees him. And then – sniffs him. 

“I was worried about you!” she says. “And then I met Margo at the herbalist’s party, and she said you were fucking her best friend.” 

It doesn’t sound like she was too worried, then. “Who’s Margo?” Quentin asks. 

“I can’t believe you haven’t met Margo yet!” Julia says, like she’s suddenly an expert on everything that happens at Brakebills. She ruffles his hair, nose twitching. “Someone _marked_ you.” 

“Julia, stop smelling me, it’s rude.” Quentin tries and fails to vanish into the neck of his t-shirt. 

“Did you even shower?” she asks. 

“I woke up late.” Quentin sighs. Waking up this morning was hard. He’d felt so safe and warm, and Eliot had woken him so gently, kissing his temple and his cheek and smiling as he told him that it was considered especially bad form to be late on your first day. 

He’d done all the right things. Petted him, fed him, reassured him. Even said they could meet later. But Quentin still feels raw, like his skin doesn’t belong to him. 

He squeezes Julia’s hand. She gives him a look that’s one part tender and two parts lecherous. “Are you going to tell me about him?” 

Quentin nods. “If you tell me about the party.” He also figures he should find out what happened with Penny, but. He kind of doesn’t want to know. 

“Sit down!” Dean Fogg’s standing at the front of their lecture hall, clapping his hands for silence. 

“Later,” Julia mouths at him, letting go of his hand so she can dig out her notebook.

Quentin wants to take notes too, but he finds he keeps sliding his fingers into his mouth and sucking on them, imagining they’re Eliot’s, or running his fingers over his neck. Anyway, it’s mostly a welcome speech and a chance to outline rules. He’ll ask Julia later. 

“We’ll have a short recess,” another teacher says as Fogg finishes up. “Except for anyone who is officially identified as a submissive. Come to the front of the room. We need you to go to the health centre.” 

“Good luck,” Julia says as she follows Kady out.

Everyone seems to be filling out. Quentin stands alone by the desk, feeling very small and awkward. He hugs his satchel to his chest, because Lamb’s in there, and even if he can’t hold Lamb, it’s better than nothing. 

Then a blond girl with glasses joins him. She glares so much that Quentin decides it would be better not to say hi, but he keeps looking at her sidelong and wondering if it’s possible to make friends. She glances at him and wrinkles her nose, and he suddenly regrets not having had time for a shower. It’s kind of rude to go around smelling like a top’s pheromones. 

“Someone got laid.” Penny says, standing on the other side of Quentin. 

Quentin flinches, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “What are you doing here?” 

“What do you _think_ he’s doing here?” the blond girl says, raising her chin. 

“He’s not a...” Quentin swallows, looking at Penny. He didn’t smell like a top. But some people don’t, especially if you’re not compatible with them, which Quentin and Penny clearly aren’t. 

Penny looks, briefly, sheepish. “I met Julia,” he says. “And Kady. And, look, man. I, uh. I’m not going to break your arm or whatever.” 

Quentin ducks his head. “Thanks?” 

“Julia said...” Penny stops. Refolds his arms. “Whatever,” he says, raising his chin, and glaring at Quentin. 

The blond girl glares at him too. 

And Quentin _likes_ being friends with other subs. It’s important to have allies. 

At last, the teacher beckons to them. She introduces herself as Professor Sunderland. “Just three of you?” She glances at her list. “Yep, that’s all we have. Come on.” 

The medical centre is brightly lit and very modern. They’re brought into a very sterile office, and asked to sit down. Penny somehow makes it look like sitting is both an enormous effort and completely beneath him. The blond won’t look at either of them. 

“I don’t think it’s necessary that I be here,” she says, when the doctor arrives. 

“Alice Quinn,” the doctor says. “I presume. Nice to meet you. I’m Dr Lipson. It’s mandatory that all submissives join us for a brief meeting.” 

“Why?” Alice says. Quentin is becoming really impressed by the way she bares her teeth at everyone in authority. 

“We’ll need you to fill out some basic paperwork,” Dr Lipson says. “I’ll be frank: the experience in Brakebills will not be easy for you. The school’s standards are rigorous, and some of the methods are particularly difficult for submissives. We do not make allowances for that. However, I’m here to monitor your physical and mental health, and if I believe the strain is too great, I will step in.” 

“What does that mean?” Alice says. “You’ll ‘step in’?” 

“Honestly, Alice, it means I’ll suggest that you are removed from the programme.” 

Quentin hunches in on himself. That sounds familiar. _Quentin, this course is very difficult. Quentin, I don’t know if you’ll be able to complete this assignment by yourself. Quentin, I’ve never had a submissive complete this class before. Maybe you should go home, Quentin. We care about your health, Quentin._

“Fuck that,” Penny says. “No way am I going to let you monitor me.” 

“I’m afraid it’s mandatory,” Lipson says. “If you don’t comply, we’ll have to dismiss you from the programme for your own safety. Now, who wants to be examined privately first? Quentin?” 

* 

“That was bullshit,” Penny says as soon as they’re allowed to leave. He crumples the leaflet on submissive health they were all given, throws it on the ground and kicks it. “Honestly, I’m pretty sure this shit is illegal.”

Alice, walking ahead of them, turns slightly. “Magical schools and facilities aren’t governed by state law.” 

“It is bullshit,” Quentin says. He rubs his arm, feeling kind of sore from where the doctor drew blood. 

“Alice, slow down,” Penny says. 

She shakes her head. “Can’t. I’m sure they’ve started class without us.” 

“That’s not –” Quentin begins, and swallows down the word ‘fair’. It was clear that nothing was going to be fair. 

Penny strides faster, catching up to, and then overtaking, Alice. “He has long legs,” Quentin complains as she breaks into a jog. 

Alice glances at him. “They’re going to stick us together,” she says “You and me and him. You know that, don’t you? They won’t want us to hold the others back.” 

She says ‘others’ with withering contempt. 

“I don’t mind being paired with you,” Quentin says. He’s not so sure about Penny. 

Alice’s nose wrinkles behind her glasses. “I don’t want to be stuck with you just because we’re the same type.” 

That seems a little unfair. “I could be great at magic! You don’t know.” 

“Seems like you’re just here to find a top,” Alice says. “Which is a weird choice, by the way: tops who do magic are worse than the rest.” 

“I’m not...” Quentin stops. There’s an insult and new information in there and he doesn’t know the best way to reply. 

Penny, ahead of them, slides into the classroom without holding the door open. It swings in their faces. “Fuck,” Quentin mutters. 

The class has indeed started without them. Quentin gets into his chair next to Julia. She’s been taking notes, but with her left hand she reaches for his wrist and gives it a comforting squeeze. Quentin finds himself leaning into her warmth just a little. It’s been a long day already, and he really wants to curl up somewhere with Lamb and rest. 

“Nice of you to join us,” Sunderland’s saying, in classic teacher style, as though they’re late on purpose. Alice is sitting at the very front, not making eye contact with anyone. Penny snorts and stretches his legs out in front of him, knocking into Kady’s chair. Quentin shuffles so close to Julia’s he’s actually leaning against her side. 

“Alice Quinn,” the teacher says. “Come forward and show us what you can do.” 

Alice walks forward in little awkward steps, tucking her chin down. Then, making it look completely easy, she’s doing actual magic right in front of them. The little glass ball loops and turns into a tiny horse. 

“We need to make friends with that girl,” Julia says, eyes shining, vibrating with the need to learn. 

“I don’t think it’ll be easy,” Quentin says.


	6. Chapter 6

“Well.” Margo stands at the end of Eliot’s bed, still wearing her dress from the previous evening. “I met some cute kids.” 

Eliot’s classes don’t start until tomorrow, and after he sent Quentin to class, he put himself back to bed. He stretches decorously across the sheets in his favourite silk robe, smoking and thinking. And trying not to think about: little hot eager mouth, huge spacey brown eyes, frantic warm body. 

Margo lies down next to him, nudging him with her shoulder. He smells her perfume, overlaid by the scent of the girl she’d made out with. “Before I left, I heard you getting an extremely intense blowjob,” she says. “You made some noises I haven’t heard in months.” 

Eliot stubs out his cigarette. Should they share some wine now? Probably not. He’s got to pick up Quentin later. 

Margo pokes him with her hard little chin. “Are you going to tell me about it?” 

He doesn’t know what to say. Drama. When in doubt, be dramatic. He lets his head loll into his pillows. “Bambi,” he says. “I don’t think I’m ready to be a father.” 

She snorts. “What are you talking about?” 

Eliot rolls over onto his stomach. “I don’t know what to do.” 

She rubs the back of his neck. “There, there.” And then, in a slightly more serious voice, “What did this boy do to you?” 

“I sucked him off, he sucked me off. He spent the night.”

“OK. It’s not like you’ve never had sex before, El. I need more details.” 

Eliot swallows. “Bambi, he just... He was so precious. I’m – I’m afraid of some other top getting him and fucking him up. But. I’m also afraid I’ll fuck him up. I’m a mess. We know I’m a mess. That’s what we love about me. But...” 

Margo sighs “God. I should’ve eaten before I came in here. Or at least taken off my make-up. I can see there’s going to be a lot to unpack.” 

Eliot had fucked a lot of twinks in college. And they’d all said basically the same thing: that he wasn’t toppy enough, that he was too kind and careful, did he think maybe he wasn’t actually a top. When he fucked other dominants they always treated him like he was delicate, like he was some kind of weird new flavour they were sampling. Only Margo ever seemed to understand him, to understand that he liked to do things for people. That he needed to make people feel safe. 

He doesn’t know how to put it into words. The way Quentin’s so shy, so hunched in on himself, and then so open as soon as Eliot touches him. How small and soft his body is, how dark with hair. How Eliot had woken that morning hours before Quentin and just stared at him, and felt something huge and nameless. 

“I’ll make you breakfast,” Eliot says. “You can tell me about the new kids.” 

Margo narrows her eyes at him. “I’m only letting you get away with the dissembling because I’m hungry.” 

* 

Eliot’s early to pick up Quentin. He can imagine how easily Quentin would fall into subdrop: he needs reassurance all the time. And Eliot likes giving that reassurance: he feels warm thinking about it: how much he wants to hold Quentin, make him food, make him feel safe. 

_It’s only been two days,_ he reminds himself. _Get it together, Waugh._

Quentin exits from the classroom with a fine-boned woman in a tiny blazer. She’s holding his wrist like she’s in charge of him, and Eliot can feel her protective top energy from where he’s standing. But Quentin sees him almost at once, eyes lighting up. 

He wriggles free from the woman’s grasp. He doesn’t hug Eliot, but Eliot can tell that he wants to. “Hi!” he says, voice slightly squeaky. 

“I’m Julia,” his friend says, sticking out her hand. 

Eliot shakes it, introducing himself. She nods, looks at Quentin and says, “Q, don’t you need to go potty?” 

Quentin flushes, squirms, nods, and doesn’t move. It’s kind of adorable. 

Julia looks at him, and jerks her head towards the nearest bathroom. Eliot wonders if Quentin has trouble excusing himself, or if he finds it hard to recognise when he has to go. Either is common for subs like Quentin. 

He mumbles something that might be, “I’ll be right back!” 

The exchange has all taken place before Julia has let go of Eliot’s hand. She’s got a firm grip. 

“He really likes you,” Julia says, looking Eliot dead in the eye, like it’s a challenge. 

She’s so tiny. But Eliot’s met Margo: he’s not going to underestimate her. 

“I really like him too,” Eliot says. He realises that was what he was trying to tell Margo, earlier, what was so hard to put into words. He’s not used to liking people. Not like this. 

Julia’s expression softens very slightly. “He’ll need a rest this afternoon. Today was a big day for him. And he was too nervous to eat much lunch, so you’ll need to feed him, too.” 

“OK.” Eliot suddenly feels better, knowing Quentin has Julia on his side. 

“I’m his best friend,” she adds. “Not his top. He’d be mad at me if he knew I was saying this.” 

“Well,” Eliot says. “It’s good to know he needs a nap. That wasn’t in my itinerary.” 

“What was?” Julia asks. 

Eliot laughs. “I didn’t have one? I said I’d check in on him after class. I want to make sure he’s OK.” 

Julia smiles slightly. “Oh. I always have an itinerary.” 

Eliot can tell. She looks like someone who’d have an itinerary. He feels a tiny bit inadequate. They both look up as Quentin returns, flapping his hands like he just washed them. Julia looks at Quentin for a second, then stretches up to give him a quick kiss on his forehead. 

“Come find me if you need me,” she says. She gives Eliot another quick glare. 

“Hey,” Quentin says, once they’re alone. “She’s, uh...” 

“She seems nice,” Eliot says. And then he can’t not hug him, because Quentin looks so small, and his eyes are red-rimmed and tired, and when he holds out his arms, Quentin nestles against him like it’s the most natural place in the world. “She said you might need a nap.” 

“She says a lot of things,” Quentin mumbles against Eliot’s chest. And then, “But yeah, I might need a nap.” 

“Well, you’ve already tried out my bed. Do you think it would work for napping?”


	7. Chapter 7

Alice has a single room, unlike anyone else on her floor. She assumes it’s because she’s a late addition to the student body. Or don’t they want subs to share with dominants? 

She can’t believe she had to break in here in order to take the test. Why didn’t they want her? Because she’s classed as a submissive? Because of what happened to Charlie? 

Motherfuckers. 

Despite that, she’s glad to have a single room. She can’t concentrate around other people. She lays her books out on her desk. The assignments they were given are pretty straightforward, but she wants to get them done quickly and well. They can’t have any excuses to kick her out. 

Then she’ll go to the library, and start her real work. 

She rubs her eyes. She’s tired, and she doesn’t want to be tired. Good little submissives like stupid _Quentin_ get to be tired and cuddle people and demand attention. She’s not like them. She has to manage on her own. 

Maybe she needs some coffee. 

She’s still thinking about coffee when someone knocks on her door. 

“Hello.” The woman is small, but has a tonne of top energy. Like she’s never had anyone say no to her ever in her life. Alice already hates her. “I’m Julia. I thought maybe we could talk.” 

“I’ve got a lot of work to do,” Alice says. 

“That’s kind of what I wanted to talk about,” Julia says. “I was so impressed with what you did today. You’re on a whole other level. I was wondering if you could talk to me about the spells?” 

Alice is immediately suspicious. Does she want her to do her work for her? 

“I don’t think so,” Alice says, and then adds, “No.” 

Julia doesn’t look as shocked at being told no as Alice thought she would. “OK,” she says, but her voice is gentle and even, in a way that makes Alice suspect she’s just humouring her. “Maybe we could get a snack? I don’t know about you, but I’m starving after today.” 

Alice bites her lip. She doesn’t want to be friends. But she also knows it’s a bad idea not to have any allies at all. 

“I’ll buy you cake?” Julia suggests. She sounds so enthusiastic. 

“It’s been a long day,” Alice says. “You don’t have to be so perky.” 

She expects Julia to bristle, but instead she laughs. “Coffee?” 

*

Alice pours sugar into her coffee until it’s sweet enough to drink. And then stirs, not looking at Julia. 

“Do you have magic in your family?” Julia’s saying. “I didn’t know there _was_ magic until we got here, but some people know so much already.” 

“And that makes you feel inferior?” 

“No. I want to know everything.” 

That’s the first thing Julia’s said that’s made Alice pay attention. “Me too,” she admits, after a moment. She wants to get Charlie back, and then she wants to know everything. Preferably in that order, but she’ll take what she can get. 

“It must be hard to deal with all these changes,” Julia says, leaning a little closer. “Change is always hard for submissives. My friend, Quentin...” 

“You don’t know anything about it,” Alice says. She keeps her voice even, because she doesn’t want Julia to accuse her of being too emotional. Tops love to do that. 

“I know all subs are different. I can’t make generalisations: I’m sorry.” 

This wasn’t what Alice expected her to say. She bites her lip. The thing is that, if she compared her alignment chart with Quentin’s, she’s pretty sure they’d look very similar. She always tries to cheat the tests, and it doesn’t work: it comes up with exactly the same pheromonal and hormonal levels that pinpoint her as emotionally vulnerable, desperate for affection, and responsive to authority. Penny probably has a slightly less embarrassing alignment. 

“I don’t...” Alice sighs. “That meeting they made us go to today was pretty offensive.” 

Julia sips her coffee. She takes it black, which seems like a stupid display of machismo to Alice. “What happened?” 

“Didn’t your boy tell you?”

“He’s not my...” Julia sighs, like she’s had this conversation a hundred times. “Not really. Quentin just said he didn’t like it, but he hates doctors.” 

“They said the programme is especially hard for subs, and they wouldn’t give us any support, but they’d kick us out if they thought we were struggling.” 

Julia puts both her hands on the table. Breathes in. “What the fuck.” 

Alice shrugs. “It’s what I expected.” 

“You’re the best person here. How can they even think about kicking you out?” 

“They didn’t want me in the first place.” Alice is surprised to find herself admitting it. She feels very small. “I had to break in to take the test.” 

“OK, forgive me for saying this.” Julia looks at Alice. “But you are so fucking cool.” 

Alice didn’t expect this reaction at all. She laughs in surprise. 

Julia’s eyes crinkle in response. “And they’re not getting away with this discriminatory bullshit. If they think they can intimidate you, they’re wrong.” 

Alice isn’t so sure about that. Suddenly she feels very tired. She wishes she could lie somewhere and have someone pet her hair. She has a flash, suddenly, of Julia tying her wrists and telling her she can scream and yell as much as she wants to, that she, Julia, isn’t going anywhere. Alice isn’t sure where the thought comes from, and it makes her uncomfortable. 

She swallows, and says, in a rush, “Thanks for getting coffee. I can show you the transformation spell if you want, but you’re probably better off just doing your assignments. What I did wasn’t really very advanced. My family...” She nearly chokes. It isn’t easy to say anything at all about her family. “I have some experience with magic, but usually people catch up pretty quickly after a few weeks here.” 

Actually, hardly anybody ever catches up with Alice, but she isn’t going to say that. 

Julia leans towards her. “I’d love for you to show me again. Even if I can’t do it. I just – you made something so beautiful out of nothing.” 

Alice reaches into her bag, where she’s wrapped the tiny horse in her scarf. She has lots of them, after all. She holds it out to Julia. 

“Do you want it?” she asks. 

“Yes,” Julia says, smiling. “I do want it.” 

Suddenly, Alice is aware of Julia’s scent – warm and spicy. She’s usually able to ignore tops’ scent, and not expose her neck to the first top she sees, unlike Quentin, but Julia is having an effect on her. She doesn’t like it, but at the same time, she feels it, low in her belly. 

“I’m going to get some work done in the library,” Alice says. 

Julia stands up too, and says, “Can I come with you?” 

*

Julia turns out not to be a horrible study companion. She seems to actually want to get work done, and as she looks through the books, she makes little sounds of awe. Which is kind of sweet, actually. 

Alice grits her teeth. She can’t believe she’s finding a top sweet. She’s pretty sure trusting tops is what went wrong for Charlie. 

But they sit in relative silence, and Alice tries to ignore Julia’s scent. She knows she’s lonely, that she needs contact, and that her blood tests will probably show she’s horribly low in various pheromones, and she’ll need to take supplements. So it’s not surprising that Julia’s presence is having an effect. She reminds herself of Quentin, the way he did what Julia told him, the way he smelt of some other top, and that she doesn’t want to be like that, ever. She’s her own person. 

Julia pushes a book towards her. “Can we do this?” 

It’s one of the earliest group spells that magicians practice. They’ll probably start on it next week. Alice looks at Julia’s eager face. She thinks she’ll probably need someone to help her find Charlie, someone to work on locator spells with her. She could train Julia. 

They go into one of the labs to practice it together. Julia’s hands are warm and firm. Alice hasn’t done a spell with someone since Charlie disappeared. She’d forgotten how it feels: a freshness in her body, like her eyes are opening wide, and she’s seeing clearly for the first time in a long time. And she can feel Julia’s magic, too – dark and strong, like red wine. Her body grows warm with it. 

She can see wonder in Julia’s eyes, and excitement. It’s impossible not to feel that thrill reflected in her own skin. 

_Fuck,_ she thinks, letting their hands drops. 

“Can we do that again?” Julia asks. 

“OK,” Alice says.


	8. Chapter 8

Eliot doesn’t really intend to sleep, but it’s hard to resist Quentin. Looking embarrassed, he pulls a toy lamb out of his bag, and snuggles it to his chest. Then he sits on the edge of the bed, nibbling his lip, as though he doesn’t know what the next step is. Eliot suggests he takes off his shoes, and he yawns, fumbling at the laces, eyes bleary. God, he’s so cute, and so stupid. Eliot ends up partially undressing him, and then Quentin’s in his arms. He goes to sleep almost immediately: Eliot watches him (his dark eyelashes! his scruffy cheeks!) and then dozes too. 

He wakes because Quentin’s humping his leg. It’s very gentle, rhythmic. Eliot can feel the press of Quentin’s cock against his thigh, hear Quentin’s soft little sighs. His mouth is open. Eliot touches his finger to Quentin’s lips, and Quentin immediately sucks it inside. His eyelashes flutter. His cheeks are red and flushed with sleep. 

Eliot doesn’t want to move. He’s so warm, and Quentin rocking against him feels both erotic and soothing. He moves his leg a little, improving the angle, and Quentin murmurs something in response. 

He strokes Quentin’s cheek. He’s still sucking hard at Eliot’s finger, tongue hot. Eliot’s own cock is growing hard. He’s torn between waking Quentin, shoving his hand down Quentin’s pants, and seeing how long this will go on for. 

He can’t resist kissing Quentin’s forehead, then his flushed cheek. Quentin’s eyes open – dark, huge. “Good boy,” Eliot murmurs, afraid he’ll startle him. “Were you having a good dream?”

Quentin had stopped sucking his finger, but he starts again, cheeks hollowing. Eliot cups Quentin’s cock through his pants, and Quentin whimpers, bucking into Eliot’s hand. 

“Do you want me to get you off, hm? Is that what you want?” 

Quentin nods. Voice garbled, “Please.” 

This boy – Jesus. Eliot feels a pulse of heat, and something else. A weight in his chest. He wants to pull him close, closer, like there’s never going to be enough closeness. Like the most erotic thrill imaginable is jerking Quentin off after they spent two hours cuddling. 

Eliot helps Quentin shimmy out of his boxers. They tangle somewhere around his ankles. It doesn’t matter. Eliot threads his leg between Quentin’s, thrusts up, feels Quentin’s warm, furred thighs clasp hold of him. He presses his palm against Quentin’s cock, and whispers, “Fuck my hand.” 

Quentin squirms for a second, uncertain, and then rocks forward, humping Eliot’s leg and hand. He’s more determined now he’s awake, but the rhythm feels similar – deliberate, careful, firm. 

“Good boy,” Eliot murmurs, “Such a good boy.” Then he’s still talking, “You’re doing so well. Later I’m going to – I’m going to tie you up, and I’m going to slick up my fingers and slide them into your ass, and we’ll see how long you can go without coming, hmm? And I’m going to get you to kneel for me and hold my cock in your mouth, just hold it for me, and see how long you can keep it warm for me. Would you like that, baby?” 

Quentin’s whimpering, drooling around Eliot’s finger. “Yes,” he’s murmuring. “Yes.” 

“You can come now, baby,” Eliot says, and curls his fingers around Quentin’s cock to give him more pressure. “If you want to. Do you want to come?” 

“Uh-huh.” 

Eliot kisses his forehead. Then draws his finger out of Quentin’s mouth so he can kiss him. The wet heat of him. He dips his tongue into Quentin’s mouth and Quentin lips part, sloppy and open. 

He wants to grip Quentin, crush him in his arms, twine his hair around his hand, but he settles for jerking Quentin’s cock, listening to Quentin’s breath, the frantic stutter of his hips. 

Then Quentin’s coming – Eliot feels the heat of it, smells it, thinks briefly of the sheets, and then thinks, _Oh, fuck it, that’s what magic is for._

Afterwards, he tries to settle Quentin against his chest, but Quentin whimpers again, something that sounds like, “Oh no, oh no,” and he’s scrambling out of the bed, falling over because he’s tangled in his boxers, and then standing up again. He runs into the adjoining bathroom. 

Eliot, worried, hard-on diminishing, follows him. 

He’s left the bathroom door wide open, and he’s sitting on the toilet, head buried in his hands. A loud trickle explains what he’s doing. 

“Are you OK?” Eliot asks. 

Quentin sniffles, looks up. Toes squirming on the tile. “I’m sorry.” 

“I don’t think you did anything wrong, baby.” He’s still peeing. “You really had to go, huh?” 

Quentin sniffs again. “It’s – stupid. I nearly –” He swallows, and then says in a very small voice, “Peed on you.” 

“Did you?” Eliot asks. He wonders if he should give Quentin space, but Quentin never seems like he wants space, so he stays where he is as Quentin stands up and tries to pull up a pair of pants that aren’t there because he left them on Eliot’s floor. 

“Uh-huh,” says Quentin, sounding agonised. He splashes some water on his hands. “I always have to go after I wake up. And sometimes after I come, and I...” 

“And you’ve just woken up, and you’ve just come,” Eliot says gently, guiding Quentin back towards the bed. “You know, if you had pissed on me, I don’t think it would be your fault.” 

Quentin rubs his eyes with his knuckles. “But I... I always do stupid stuff like this.” 

“Baby.” Eliot can’t stand to see him distressed. He’s never felt like this before, like he’ll just _fall apart_ if he can’t adequately comfort someone. He tugs Quentin onto his lap, and Quentin allows himself to settle against Eliot at the edge of the bed. “I haven’t learnt what you need yet, have I? We’re guaranteed to make mistakes. But I think we can take care of each other, and figure it out. I’m not going to be mad at you for accidents.” 

Quentin hides his face in the crook of Eliot’s neck. “Even if they involve pee?”

“You know you’re not exactly alone in having some problems there,” Eliot says. “Lots of subs do. If it helps, now that I know you do, my lizard brain is imagining you sitting on my lap and forgetting you need to go, and wetting your pants.” 

Quentin shivers in response. And doesn’t say anything for so long Eliot’s afraid he’s made the wrong move. 

Then Quentin mumbles, “Sometimes I wet the bed too.” Like he’s laying everything out on the table. 

Eliot rubs his back. He’s heard of plenty of other subs having this problem, too – honestly, almost all his favourite sub vidoes begin with a sub waking up in a wet bed – and he’s not sure why Quentin seems this traumatised about it. He guesses it’s hard when it’s you, and when you’re different from all the tops around you. “That’s understandable,” Eliot says. He kisses Quentin’s ear. 

“I could get it on you,” Quentin says, darkly. “We’re just lucky it didn’t happen last night.” 

“Maybe I would have liked to get you nice and clean again,” Eliot says. He lifts Quentin’s t-shirt – how can he still be wearing a t-shirt? -- and gently tickles his ribs. 

It has more of an impact than he anticipated. Quentin squirms, and then, as Eliot keeps going, begins to giggle. It’s a giggle of surprise, more than anything, and Eliot keeps tickling, until Quentin is wriggling and squirming and hooting with laughter. His dimples crinkle across his cheeks. Eliot ducks his head and blows a raspberry onto Quentin’s soft stomach. The sound seems to reverberate through Quentin’s body, and Quentin shrieks, squirming, pushing Eliot away. 

He’s grinning at him now. Beginning to relax. 

“Fuck, you’re so cute,” Eliot says. 

Quentin laughs again, like he can’t believe it. 

“Hey, did you know you’re naked?” Eliot says, taking one of Quentin’s feet and tickling it too. 

Quentin nearly kicks him as he tries to scramble away. “I’m not. I’m wearing a shirt.” 

“Oh, I forgot. Well, that’s fine then, you’re properly attired to meet my friend Margo for dinner.” 

“Maybe you should dress me,” Quentin says. He digs his toy lamb out from under his pillow, hugging it to his chest, and looks up at Eliot. It’s the first time he’s said anything remotely bratty, and Eliot finds it so adorable that he swoops down and blows another raspberry on Quentin’s stomach because he can’t handle the emotions he’s feeling. 

Quentin squeaks and tangles his fingers in Eliot’s hair, pushing Eliot away. 

“Hard line. No touching my hair,” Eliot says. 

“You touch my hair all the time.” 

“But I’m in charge,” Eliot says, climbing over Quentin and pinning him. 

Quentin’s still laughing as he stretches his face up, and they kiss – soft, sloppy, mouths wet and smiling. “I should feed you,” Eliot says, drawing away. His cock is remembering that it was hard not so long ago. “I promised Julia.” 

Quentin pouts, which isn’t helping. 

“Come on.” Eliot sits up. 

“Can I bring Lamb?” Quentin says. 

A few hours ago, he was barely able to admit he had the stuffed toy. This seems like progress, though Eliot isn’t exactly sure what kind. 

“You should definitely bring Lamb.”


	9. Chapter 9

There are a few other students downstairs, but the rooms clearly belong to Eliot and Margo. Everyone makes space for them, and defers to them. Quentin stands next to Eliot, feeling very small and very out-of-place, clutching Lamb to his chest. He sees the others glancing at him, and then dismissing him: he’s a sub, he’s a first year, he’s nothing. 

And that’s a lot less intimidating than Margo’s stare, which makes him feel like he’s being stripped. God, she’s so – she’s maybe the most beautiful person he’s ever seen, including Eliot, and she’s so clearly in charge. Orchestrating everything. She doesn’t need to do anything to seize that power, she just has it, like a king in a fairytale. 

Quentin’s aware that he must stink of Eliot and sex, that he’s scruffy and can’t possibly make a good impression. 

“I’m going to make dinner,” Eliot says, pushing him towards Margo. “Grilled chicken OK, Bambi?”

“Come here,” she says to Quentin, and his hindbrain tells him to kneel for her right now. Instead, he works forward on shaky legs. Part of him wishes he’d left Lamb in the room, because it’s embarrassing, bringing a toy, and part of him is very glad for her comfort. 

Margo pats the window seat, Quentin perches beside her. He tries to meet her eyes, and then glances away. 

“God, you’re nervous,” she says. “Jesus. I won’t bite, ever, unless we all agree to it.” 

“I might be less nervous if you did,” Quentin manages. “I usually like biting.” 

“Noted,” Margo says, and laughs. “You’re very forward.” 

“I don’t know what I’m saying: the last few...” He pauses, suddenly uncertain about time. “It’s been crazy.” 

“I like it.” Margo ducks her head a little, trying to meet his eyes around his curtain of hair. “What’s the sheep for? Trying to appear non-threatening?” 

“This is my emotional support Lamb,” Quentin says. It’s not that unusual for a sub, particularly with his levels, to want a comfort item, but psychiatrists always read way too much into it, like it would be easier to understand if he just took heroin. 

“What it’s name?”

“She’s just called Lamb.” 

Margo looks between him and Lamb, and then reaches out and shakes Lamb’s small hoof. “It’s nice to meet you.” 

“She doesn’t talk, she’s a lamb,” Quentin explains, and blushes faintly. When is he ever not blushing? 

“You’re really not hiding anything, are you?” Margo says. “I wanted to make sure you weren’t fucking with Eliot, but you’re exactly what you seem like, aren’t you? Zero guile. No layers.” 

Quentin shrugs. He’s pretty sure this is true. He wishes he could be more. 

“They’ll eat you alive, El’s right.” Margo’s voice is very soft, and Quentin looks over at her, not sure what to say. But she gives him a dazzling smile, and he’s completely bowled over once more by how beautiful she is. “Come on, let’s get you a drink.” 

She reaches for his hand, like it’s second nature. Her fingers are cool and strong. 

Eliot gets white wine from the refrigerator (Honestly, who _are_ these people? Who remembers to chill wine?) and pours three glasses. Quentin sits at the end of the table, and carefully puts Lamb on an empty chair. 

“So.” Margo cups her chin in her hands. “Have you done your homework assignments? Or were you two busy fucking?” 

Quentin – would probably have a higher grade point average if he were able to chose homework over sex. Or if he didn’t have chronic depression. He shrugs. “I can’t believe I’m behind on my assignments in fucking magic school.” 

Margo doesn’t smile. “Yeah, that’s not going to go well for you. You’re teaching him to be as irresponsible as you are, El.” 

“I don’t like to talk about work. I try to cultivate an aura of mystique, you know that, Bambi.” 

“Which is why you keep trying to cheat off me,” Margo says, rolling her eyes. She fixes Quentin with her stare. “I’ll help you get started, if you promise to take a shower and get an early night. One time offer.” 

Quentin was honestly hoping to spend the rest of the evening sucking Eliot’s dick, and worry about work later, but it – seems pretty dumb to start fucking up right at the beginning of _magic school,_ even if Eliot’s dick is very tempting. 

He glances at Eliot, who raises his hands. “I probably should raise you to be responsible. And Margo is the best study partner. But it’s your call.” 

“OK,” Quentin says, taking another sip of his wine. 

“What do you say?” Margo’s voice is slow, teasing, but there’s a tiny edge to it. 

“Yes, Margo,” Quentin tries. “Thank you, Margo.” 

“He is a nice boy, isn’t he?” she says to Eliot. 

**

After class the next day, Quentin shares a slice of cake with Eliot (sticky, sweet, Eliot’s fingers on his mouth), and then goes to his room, ostensibly to study. Penny isn’t there, though the room seems full of him: his clothes piled on the chair, his books on the dresser, a smell of weed in the air. Quentin showered that morning, and he knows it’s probably for the best that he doesn’t reek of Eliot, but also: he misses it. He presses his hand to his nose, trying to capture the last hints of that scent. 

He has three boxes stashed by the bed, containing books, clothes, a few more stuffed animals. He’d usually have unpacked by now, and created a little nest in his bed, a safe space. He opens one of his boxes, picks up the stuffed sloth Julia gave to him, but eventually puts it back in again. This isn’t his space, and he doesn’t think it’ll ever feel like it is. Eliot says he’ll probably move to another dorm or house soon, anyway, once his discipline is established. 

Julia and Kady push the door open, Kady saying, “Are you in here, Penny?” 

They’ve been hanging out a lot, Kady and Julia, he’s noticed. It’s not only that they’re sharing a room. “Just me,” Quentin says. 

“I thought you were with Eliot.” Julia sits beside him on the bed. 

“I’m planning to study.” 

She laughs. “Yeah, you should probably do that.” 

“We were going to study too,” Kady says. 

“No, you weren’t.” Julia laughs. “You and Penny were going to wander around looking hot and bored.” 

Kady snorts. “That’s not a plan, Jules. We don’t do that.” 

Julia stands up. She reaches for Quentin’s hand, like he’s an extension of her body, and Quentin takes it automatically. “Well, you can come study with me and Q, or you can wander around looking for Penny. Whatever you think would be more productive.” 

“Like watching you snuggle your friend is productive,” Kady says, nudging Julia with her shoulder. 

“The exercise did call for group work,” Quentin says. “I think we need a fourth.” 

“I’ll get Alice,” Julia says. “You guys find us a table in the library.” 

She lets go off his hand. Quentin packs Lamb back into his satchel as she goes upstairs. Kady says, “We don’t have to do what Julia she says, you know.” 

“I know, but I, uh. Usually do?” Quentin rubs his chin. Kady makes him nervous. 

“Yeah.” Kady nods. “Don’t tell her, but I usually do too.” 

**

That night, the first night he spends alone in his room with Penny, Quentin wets the bed. He wakes up in the cooling, sticky puddle, and wonders if it’s worse for this to happen in the dorm, or if it would have been worse to be in bed with Eliot. If Eliot were here – Quentin would be embarrassed, certainly. He’d be afraid that Eliot would be angry, and wouldn’t want to share a bed with Quentin any more. But at the same time, he wants Eliot to hold him. He doesn’t want to manage by himself in the dark.

He checks his thoughts, trying to keep his mind calm, the way Kady, and then Margo, have shown him. He has to keep his wards in place: he doesn’t want to wake Penny by panicking. 

He keeps still until he’s sure he’s calm enough not to disturb Penny, and then he gets out of bed. He checks Lamb first, and is pleased to find that she’s still dry. Then it’s the usual ritual of bundling the sheets, finding dry clothes, going to the bathroom. 

Once he’s clean, and the sheets are in the huge laundry hamper at the end of the hall, Quentin stands outside the bedroom, holding Lamb. Shuffling his feet against the cold tiles. He could get back into bed, but Julia said he could come to visit her if he had a bad night, and – at 10pm, the suggestion seemed ridiculous, but at 3am, it feels irresistible. 

He pads up the stairs. Two or three creak ominously. Upstairs, one of the rooms still has a light on, but otherwise it’s dark and hushed. He peaks into Julia’s room. He can hear Kady snoring faintly, and it helps to navigate his way to Julia’s bed. He stands, for a moment, worried about bothering her. 

Carefully, he raises the covers. She turns, looks up at him, and opens her arms. “Oh, hi, baby.” 

He climbs in next to her. She’s so warm. He hadn’t even realised he was cold. He snuggles against her, chin fitting into the crook of her neck. 

“Bad night?” she asks, voice husky with sleep. With one hand, she reaches down and pats his bottom. Quentin’s pretty sure that she’s checking if his pants are damp, and he’s kind of offended, because he obviously wouldn’t come in here if he wasn’t clean first. 

He wriggles into the warm sheets. “I guess I had a bad dream.” 

“S’OK,” Julia says. She’s already drifting back to sleep. She pats his butt, slow and firm, and it’s more reassuring than he’d want to admit. He shuts his eyes, breathing in her scent. 

So he only managed approximately four hours in his own bed. So what.


	10. Chapter 10

When he sees them at a distance, Eliot thinks that Quentin and Alice are chatting, but as he gets closer, it becomes pretty clear that they’re fighting. 

“I’m just saying that if you never trust a top, ever, you’ll be lonely,” he hears Quentin say. His cheeks are a little pink. 

“And I don’t care if I’m lonely. I don’t need to be constantly petted and cuddled, I’m not a little Daddy’s boy!” Alice’s voice is rising. 

“I’m not a Daddy’s boy either!” Quentin snaps, which is frankly ridiculous, because he practically has ‘I want to be Daddy’s Good Little Boy’ written across his forehead. 

“Good morning, kids,” Eliot says. He wants to swoop Quentin up in his arms, because while it’s only been around twelve hours since they last saw one another, he already misses him. He decides not to, since it would definitely count against Quentin’s argument to Alice. “I’m going to New York. Anyone want anything?” 

Quentin looks at him, radiant with pleasure at seeing him. It’s – it’s so much. Eliot’s always tried to cultivate an air of detachment, but now that Quentin’s looking at him with such delight, he realises it’s all he’s ever wanted. Just to have someone to cherish. 

Meanwhile, he’s reminding himself, _Don’t invite him to New York, it would be extremely impractical to bring him with you, don’t do it..._

“Or you could come with me,” Eliot says. 

Quentin’s standing up, brushing down his pants. “Can I?” 

“Of course.” Eliot takes his hand. Feeling Quentin squeeze his fingers sends a bolt of warmth through Eliot’s whole body. 

“Have fun, Daddy’s Boy,” Alice says. She’s already stalking back towards the school. 

“I’m trying to be her friend,” Quentin says. “I think. It’s not going very well.” 

“Aw, baby.” Eliot guides him towards the portal that leads to the train station. “How could anyone not like you?” 

* 

Alice intends to go straight to the library and study. The way Eliot and Quentin look at each other makes her feel itchy. And she keeps fighting with Quentin, even though she knows it’s a waste of her time. He’s OK, really. He’s a nice boy. He’s just _so nice_ that it bugs her and she wants to mess him up somehow. 

People are always touching him. Well, Julia in particular. And she saw Kady pet his stupid scruffy cheek yesterday. And she met him this morning coming out of Julia and Kady’s room in his pyjamas like that was a totally normal thing to do. What was he doing in there? Being cuddled, probably. Why does he get all this affection? He’s not _that_ cute. 

_Oh._ She might be jealous. That’s not something she wants to examine very hard. 

She just misses Charlie, and she keeps thinking _I want to go home!_ although she’s not completely sure what ‘home’ means to her. She doesn’t want to go back to her parents’ house, not ever, if she can help it, and she doesn’t have anywhere else she could call home. Except sitting with Charlie, on the bench outside, the smell of lilac in the air. Charlie showing her magic, his strong hands. The way they were a team, her and Charlie, and sometimes her dad, too. A family. 

She hasn’t felt safe in so long. 

She runs into Julia, who’s drinking coffee and chatting with Margo. 

“Alice! Hey!” Julia says, her smile gentle and warm. 

“What do you want?” Alice says, which she realises afterwards is not the appropriate response. 

“Look at you, kitty cat,” Margo says, which makes Alice feel like scratching. “What are you up to today?” 

“Studying,” Alice says, folding her arms over her chest. 

“All day?” Margo raises her eyebrows. “You’ve just started here: you don’t need to study that hard.” 

“I’m not here just to pass my classes.” 

“Oh yes?” Margo tilts her head. “Why are you here then?” 

There’s a pause. 

“Alice doesn’t have to tell us,” Julia says. 

“You don’t have to protect her,” Margo sips her coffee. “But, whatever. It’s probably not interesting.” 

Margo always looks like everything around her is beneath her notice. Alice has noticed that this makes people want to impress her. 

“It’s not,” Alice agrees, and starts walking again. 

A moment later, Julia’s catching up to her. Her hand finds Alice’s wrist, and squeezes. The touch is comforting, but Alice pulls her hand away. “Don’t worry about Margo,” Julia says. 

“I’m not. She’s right: I don’t need you to protect me.” 

They walk in silence for a few moments. Julia matches her steps. Alice wonders when she’s going to give up and get bored of her. 

She swallows. Looks over at Julia. Her expression is... kind, in a way that reminds Alice of Charlie. Alice’s stomach hurts. 

“My brother died here,” she says, soft. 

There’s a pause. “Oh, Alice.” 

“I don’t know what happened. That’s why I came to Brakebills. I want to find out.” 

“You don’t know what happened?” Julia repeats. 

“Not exactly. A magical accident. They were trying to cover something up.” Alice presses her hands together. “A lot of fucked up stuff happens here, haven’t you noticed?” 

“Yeah.” Julia stops walking. They’re near Woof fountain now, which makes Alice think of Charlie. But everything makes her think of Charlie. “I want to know everything,” Julia says. “As soon as I found out that magic was real, I had to know everything. But this place is so fucked up, I’d leave if it wasn’t the only place I could learn more.” She pauses. “That’s how they get away with it, right?” 

“And they erase your memories if you try to leave,” Alice says. 

“For fuck’s sake.” Julia makes a sound between a laugh and a snort. She rubs her hand over her eyes. “That’s a lot to process. Listen, I know you don’t like her. But have you thought of asking Margo? About Charlie. She knows everything.” 

*

On the train, Quentin sits as close to him as is physically possible without actually being in his lap. Usually, on this journey, Eliot watches the other passengers, appraises their clothes, and feels the sheer pleasure at being able to get to the city in thirty minutes. He was always afraid he’d never escape Indiana, and now he’s in magic school in upstate New York. It’s a good feeling. 

But today he’s completely distracted by Quentin’s warm breath on his neck, and he can’t help sliding one of his hands under Quentin’s shirt, and feeling Quentin’s soft, furred skin. 

Quentin’s neck looks soft and infinitely biteable. Eliot pauses on his stupid wide mouth, his jut of nose. He wants to consume it all. By the time they get to the station, they’ve kissed and touched so much they’re bordering on indecent exposure, and Eliot’s having trouble remembering why they’re not spending all day in bed. 

“Why are we going to New York, anyway?” Quentin asks. “Is it for magic?” 

He looks so hopeful when he says magic. 

They are going for magical reasons, but he’s not sure he wants to explain to Quentin that he’s buying next party’s worth of magically-spiked ecstasy from a hedge. Quentin’s not a complete innocent, Eliot does know this, but it’s hard to remember when he’s looking at him so sweetly. 

“I just like to get off campus,” Eliot says. He ruffles Quentin’s hair. “Is there anything you want to do while we’re here?” 

Quentin shrugs, but it eventually emerges that, for some godawful reason, he does want to go to a particular used bookstore and trawl through their fantasy section. Eliot can think of two or three places he wants to visit too.

As they walk, Quentin takes his hand. Eliot’s not sure he’s ever walked hand-in-hand with a sub like this, or even with a man he likes. He holds Bambi’s hand, but that’s different. Holding Quentin’s hand makes him feel exposed. But Quentin falls in step beside him, and links their fingers, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world to him. Eliot feels so protective of him that it hurts a little bit. 

Neither of them have eaten, so they get brunch first: Quentin picks out a hipster-looking cafe with lamps on all the tables. He doesn’t talk much at first, nibbling his waffles and strawberries, and blushing when he looks too directly at Eliot. It’s hard to believe he’s still shy, after sucking Eliot’s dick so many times. 

“I came to Brakebills directly from the hospital, pretty much,” Quentin says, playing with his knife and fork. He’s told Eliot that before, but it’s still a weight. “I’m getting used to the new meds. Fogg told me not to take them, but...” 

“He what.” Eliot spears one of his poached eggs, yolk going everywhere. 

“I talked to Julia about it, and we decided it was better I keep on them.” Quentin props his head on one hand. “Historically, I haven’t done great, without meds.” 

Eliot’s stomach hurts. He wants to leave Brakebills, immediately, because all of the faculty are actively endangering the students, on top of being idiots, and even if he, Eliot, doesn’t need to be safe, Quentin does, but – It’s also unsafe to leave magic behind. Because it’s the only place that’s going to teach them. 

“God, we’re fucked,” Eliot says. “The whole administration is fucked.” 

Quentin nods. “Margo was so mad when I told her about what they said to Alice and Penny and me. I thought she was going to do something right away.”

“I talked her down.” They need a plan, first. Eliot isn’t sure what they’re going to do, but every fibre in his body tells him he’s not letting them take Quentin to Brakebills South. 

“Are the meds helping, baby?” Eliot asks. He’s not ready to tell Quentin everything about the situation yet. 

Quentin shrugs. “There’ve been too many changes for me to tell. My mouth is dry all the time. I’m sleeping better, and I feel different, but that could be... you.” 

“I’ve heard sex isn’t actually a cure for depression.” 

Quentin nudges him with his foot. “Well, maybe you are.” 

Every time Quentin attempts flattery or flirtation, it’s adorable. Eliot’s phone buzzes. It’s his hedge contact. _Ready 30 mins. Got the xtra u asked for._

“Where was that book store?” Eliot asks.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When **capeofstorm** read this she said, “So is James just not in this universe?” and it took me a minute to remember who he was. So yes: James doesn’t exist here. I forgot about him, and so did Julia. Also, big shout out to **capeofstorm** for proofreading these chapters and going above and beyond, always.

“I’d rather go by myself,” Alice says, when Margo tells them how to find Emily Greenstreet. 

Margo raises her eyebrows at Julia. Julia can tell she wants to join them, but she also doesn’t think Margo’s approach is going to work with Alice. Not subtle enough. 

“You might need a little back-up,” Julia says. She doesn’t want Alice to go by herself to look for a strange Magician who might or might not have something to do with her brother’s death. The emotional fallout alone has potential to be huge. 

“And you don’t have much choice, do you?” Margo points out. 

That makes Alice bristle, but she seems to accept Julia’s company as the lesser of two evils. 

* 

They get the train to New York. Alice sits very straight beside Julia, not speaking. Julia wonders how much Eliot and Quentin made out on the way into the city, and whether anyone snapped at them. 

Julia wants to take Alice’s hand. She wants to touch Alice almost all the time she’s with her: brush her hair back from her face, put her arm around her waist, touch her cheek. She holds back, but she thinks Alice must be starving for affection. Quentin needs to be cuddled and reassured approximately eighty times a day, and she’s never seen Alice let anyone touch her at all. Was her brother the only person she let inside her walls? Julia’s burns with sadness as she thinks about it. 

It’s not that hard to find Emily Greenstreet, the last person to see Charlie alive. She’s a sub, and, like Alice, she’s carefully dressed, hard-edged and brittle. Alice asks her to talk to them; Julia is the one who coaxes her into a cafe. 

Julia doesn’t know what a niffin is, but she sees that it’s devastating as soon as she looks at Alice. 

Emily is silent, touching her face. The contours of her reformed face. She looks young and old at the same time. “Are you going to be OK getting home by yourself?” Julia asks, more to signal that Emily should leave now than that she’s concerned. Alice is holding herself taut, but Julia’s afraid something is going to break. 

Her eyes are blank. Empty. Julia’s felt like that. She’s seen Quentin look like that too. 

As soon as Emily leaves, Julia brings Alice water. The cafe is too loud. After a long silence, Alice says, “A niffin. Everything that made him Charlie... it’s been burnt out of him.” 

Julia takes her hand. Alice doesn’t pull hers away, but she doesn’t hold on, either. 

“There must be a way to bring him back,” Alice says. “There must.” 

“I’m so sorry, Alice,” Julia says. She feels the same ache in her chest that she feels when Quentin’s in trouble, but maybe even more intensely. She wants to give Alice exactly what she needs. 

“I’m going to get him back.”

“Has it been done before? Bringing back a niffin?” Julia wishes she knew more about magic; it’s with her all the time, a hunger to know everything, but right now she needs to know more so she can really help Alice. 

“I don’t know.” 

“OK.” Julia swallows. It’s a puzzle, and she solves puzzles. “It will take a lot of work. We’ll have to ask around. Maybe the professors will know something, though they might not want to tell us. We’ll need to plan.” 

Alice takes her hand away, finally. “You don’t have to be involved.” 

“I want to be.” 

“Why?” 

Julia looks at her. Be honest, she thinks. Alice needs honesty. “Lots of reasons. You want to save someone. Someone close to you. He sounds like he was a good person: it’s a good thing to do. But also, I like you, and I want to help. And... this is selfish, but I feel like I’ll learn a lot, if I work with you.” 

Alice nods, slow at first, but more fervently as the last statement, as though that’s the one that makes sense to her. 

“What do you need?” Julia asks. She wants to add ‘sweetheart’ but stops herself. “What do you need right now?” 

Alice makes a little sound: a sigh, a sob. She takes off her glasses and presses the palms of her hands to her face. Her fingers flexing. 

“I have to go back to Brakebills. Research. But I don’t want to.” 

“We could spend the day in the city,” Julia offers.

Alice’s face drops. “I don’t want to do that, either. I don’t want to be around people.” Then, very small: “But I don’t want you to go away.” 

* 

Julia’s studio apartment has not yet been sublet. Julia’s mother owns it, and she wonders if her mother will ever actually get around to subletting it. She sometimes stays in it when she’s in the city. 

Julia looks around: she should clean this place sometime. There’s a coffee mug in the sink. An open can of coke. A dead fly. Alice sits on the couch. She makes herself small, tucking her legs in, her chin down. 

“Do you want a drink?” Julia asks. 

Alice shakes her head. She squirms a little, uncertain. 

“Do you need to go potty?” Julia suggests, and then covers her mouth with her hand. “Fuck, I’m sorry. That’s the kind of thing I’d ask Quentin.” 

Alice looks at her, like she’s crazy. “Why does everyone like him so much?” Her voice sounds hurt. Petulant. 

“I’ve known him since we were kids. He’s my best friend.” 

“But he’s so...” Alice sighs. “He’s so... clingy. He’s like the subs in romance novels from the 50s. It’s gross.”

“It’s not gross. Lots of subs are like that, Alice. There’s nothing wrong with it.” 

“It’s important to be independent,” Alice says, like she’s parroting something someone told her. 

“Is that what you are?” Julia asks. 

“I try to be.”

Julia sits next to her on the couch. She wants a cigarette, but Alice doesn’t smoke. Instead, she plays with the bills on the coffee table, stacking them into an uneven pile. “Quentin did, too. He hated needing people: he thought it would be healthier not to have anyone. Better. He thought people would stop making fun of him.”

She pauses. 

“But?” Alice prompts. 

“He does need someone. We used to... We used to try to be everything to each other, but we’re not – we’re not compatible in every way. I still look after him though, and it makes us both feel better.” 

“Why do you want to look after him?” Alice’s eyes are hollow. “Why does anybody look after anyone?” 

“Is that the way you see the world?” Julia asks. “It sounds lonely.” 

Alice wraps her arms more tightly around herself. Rubs her knees. “I – I do want to be with someone, sometimes. I want to kneel for someone. But I don’t want to be like Quentin.” 

“Of course not,” Julia says, gently. “You’re you.” 

“Why would anyone want someone like me?” 

Julia looks at her: risks reaching out to touch her cheek. Alice lets her thumb her jawline, just once. “Being adorable isn’t a good enough reason?” she asks. 

“I’m not. You don’t have to say that.” 

“You are,” Julia says gently. “I like how sharp you are. How fierce. I imagine if I ever told you to do anything, you’d argue with me. Answer back. Be a brat. So if you ever did kneel for me, it would be so special: you’d be giving me a precious part of yourself. And I’d want to treasure it.” 

They’re both quiet. Julia hears the tap drip. The pipes grumble. A door bangs. A distant siren. She feels vulnerable: exposed. 

“Maybe you should kiss me, Julia,” Alice says. Very soft. Chin jutting out. 

Julia leans forward. Brushing back silky hair. Alice’s lips: hard, firm. And then soft. Alice makes a small, low noise in her throat, and opens her mouth very slightly. Julia tastes her: coffee, and the heat of her mouth. The silkiness. 

They break apart. Alice is flushed, Julia’s fingers tangled in her hair. “Oh,” Alice says, and then she crumples forwards, into Julia’s arms. Her face pressing against Julia’s neck. The heat of her through her dress. She’s clinging on, her arms wrapped tight around Julia’s ribcage. Like she’s desperate for this. 

*

Julia’s bed in the apartment is unmade. Musty from disuse. They lie on it anyway. Julia stepped out of her jeans, her shirt, and helped Alice out of her dress. They’re still in their underwear, and Julia doesn’t plan for them to get any more naked than this. She wants to hold Alice in her arms, to feel her skin against her own, to look into her eyes, to feel the warm presence of her. She wants Alice to know that she won’t demand anything from her. 

“You’re so soft,” she tells Alice, “So beautiful. I can’t believe you’re here with me.” 

Alice nuzzles at her neck. 

“We’re the smartest people around, you know that, don’t you? We’re going to be unstoppable together.” 

And Alice laughs and says, “Who says I’ll share my insights with you.” 

Julia slides her hands over Alice’s back, the curve of Alice’s bottom. “I’ll bargain with you.” 

Alice shrugs. She’s shaky, uncertain: Julia’s touch is careful, deliberate. 

“What do you like?” Julia asks, stroking Alice’s cheek. 

Alice squirms. “I can go down on you?” 

“Very nice offer. But that’s not what I meant. Right now, I want to hold you. Maybe tomorrow, or next week, we’ll do more.” 

“Oh, god.” Alice makes a face. “You’re so – sensitive. I don’t want to talk about my feelings.” 

“Noted.” Julia kisses her forehead again. “I’ll only make you talk about your feelings when you’re a bad girl.” 

Alice blushes more, eyes fluttering shut. “What if I’m always good?” 

Julia kisses her mouth: warm, responsive. “I don’t think that will happen.” 

Alice curls closer, almost sinking on top of Julia. Her arm settles against Julia’s hip. “I do like it when I – when someone spanks me. I feel solid. I haven’t – I haven’t really tried anything else.” She’s quiet, snuggling in against Julia. Her leg settles over Julia’s thigh, and Julia can feel the wetness of arousal at the crotch of her panties. Julia wants to tie her up, spread those thighs, settle her face between them. But not now. Not yet. 

“I like this,” Alice says, so soft Julia could have missed it. 

“I like this too,” Julia says. Their scents mingle in the sun-warm room. Their fingers tangle. Julia learns the taste of Alice’s skin.


	12. Chapter 12

Eliot hustles them through the rest of breakfast. Quentin doesn’t complain, but looks a little puzzled. He’s not sure how to play it, how to stop Quentin from wanting to come with him to meet the hedge. He lights a cigarette, fingers jittery. Quentin shares it with him, leaning close. He doesn’t, as far as Eliot can tell, smoke much. Mostly when someone gives him a smoke. 

The bookstore is small, and the owner seems to know Quentin. Eliot sees Quentin visibly relax as soon as they’re inside, and he goes straight to the sprawling fantasy section. 

Another text. _Where are you, man._

Shit. The walk here has taken longer than he thought. 

“I’ve got to step out for a minute. I’ll be right back,” he says. 

Quentin’s pawing through a big stack of Anne McCaffrey. Yellow and frayed pages. “I’ll come with you.” 

“Stay here. You’re having fun.” 

Quentin looks up, tilting his face towards Eliot. The kiss is soft and more lingering than Eliot means it to be. He twists his fingers in Quentin’s hand, and feels like an idiot. He’ll be back in ten minutes, and he doesn’t want to go. 

“I’m just going around the corner,” he tells Quentin. 

But the walk feels longer than it should. Eliot’s sweating by the time he gets there. 

No Jared. He waits. Paces. Smokes another cigarette. Checks his phone. 

_I’m here,_ he types. 

_You just missed me._

Eliot doesn’t want to beg a hedge. He has the six spells he agreed on in advance in his pocket, plus an enchanted amulet. He doesn’t want to interact with Jared any more than that. But still, he thumb out, _Can you come back?_

Another pause. Eliot lights another cigarette. Paces. Then Jared texts, _On my way._

Ten minutes pass. Eliot’s jittery. He’s smoked too much. He’s worrying about Quentin, and he’s cold now the sweat’s dried. This is bullshit: he should just leave, tell Jared to go fuck himself. 

Except. Except he promised Bambi. And – They need this stuff. The parties are important. 

And here’s Jared, rounding the corner, with his black point boots and his stupid tie. He nods at Eliot, gives him that familiar, lecherous look. 

They stand in the doorway. “Got a light?” Jared says. Eliot wants to tell him to fuck off, but instead he produced a smoke and a light. Jared takes it, and says, “Some kid’s looking at us.” 

Eliot glances over. It’s Quentin, hoodie hiked up around his ears, holding a brown paper bag from the bookstore. He sees Eliot seeing him, raises one hand sheepishly. 

“Hey man, do you know him?” Jared draws on the cigarette

“He’s my boyfriend.” 

Jared raises his eyebrows, like boyfriends aren’t a real thing. “Let’s just do this,” he says. As though Eliot’s the one who’s been messing around. 

Essentially, Jared’s giving him magic MDMA, plus a few other party favours. The hedges make it better than the herbalists at Brakebills do, and it’s much cheaper, since they’ll hand it over for spells, but Eliot feels vaguely dirty and embarrassed any time he talks to them. 

Once Jared’s handed him the bag, Eliot crosses the street to join Quentin. “You followed me?” he says. There’s an edge in his voice he didn’t expect. He feels _edgy:_ this whole thing is fucking beneath him. _This is the last time_ , he thinks, but he decides that basically every time. 

“Were you buying drugs?” Quentin says, looking: not surprised, exactly. 

“I was going to meet you back at the store,” Eliot says. 

“I was done. I didn’t think you’d mind.” 

Eliot doesn’t know how to answer that: he knows it’s unreasonable to be mad at Quentin for seeing this. But Eliot wanted to project something else to Quentin. If he was going to give Quentin a magical hallucinogen, he’d like Quentin to think he made it appear out of the air, rather than from a poorly-attired hedge. 

“What did you get?” Quentin asks. 

“Not here,” Eliot says, and they end up sitting in a Starbucks, and it’s grim. Two subs nearby smell uncomfortably of fear. Quentin’s hunched up in his chair: he’s probably worried that Eliot is mad at him, and Eliot feels bad about that, too. 

“We throw a lot of parties. And we like to have... fun. That guy was a hedge witch. They’re sad people. They’ll blow you for a spell. Or they’ll give you some pretty decent recreational drugs.” He swallows. “He also gave me Ambien, for Bambi. And me.” 

“Oh, I have a prescription for that,” Quentin says. “To sleep.” 

Which isn’t exactly what Eliot expected him to say. He’s not sure what he expected him to say. 

Quentin reaches for Eliot’s hand. He’s awkward as he takes it, as though he thinks Eliot’s going to pull away. In fact, Eliot’s grateful for the contact, turning his palm up. 

“Does it bother you?” Eliot says. It shouldn’t. It’s not a big deal. But he suddenly feels the need to be wholesome. To drink whole milk and go to bed by 11pm. He realises he doesn’t just want Quentin to call him ‘Daddy’ while he’s got his hand on Quentin’s cock. He also wants Quentin to give him that look of trust, and call him ‘Daddy’ because he knows Eliot will make the best choices for both of them. 

And that’s... fucking terrifying. 

“Like I said, I came here straight from hospital,” Quentin says. “I’m not the poster child for sanity, either. We all have things.” 

“But I’m...” Eliot swallows. “Yeah, I know. You probably... shouldn’t take them, if you’re on meds. And I don’t want to do something you can’t do.” 

Quentin shakes his head. “You can still party, Eliot. I’ll come too, though sometimes I end up hiding in my room to read a book, and that’s OK, too.” 

He looks so earnest. Eliot can’t help smiling at him. “But I’m your top. I’m supposed to be responsible.” 

“You don’t have to change your whole life. Anyway, you are responsible.” Quentin looks at the latte neither of them are going to drink. “I really like you,” he says, like it’s a big revelation. 

Eliot really likes him too.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one chapter uploaded this time: hopefully there'll be more soon!

On the way home, Quentin glances at the many empty seats, rocks back and forth on his heels, and climbs into Eliot’s lap. 

It’s exactly the comfort that Eliot needs, too. 

He’s so, so glad to have this lapful of Quentin. He wraps his arms protectively around him, and his lizard brain thinks, _Mine. Mine, mine._

Quentin buries his head in Eliot’s chest, and after a moment, Eliot hears a soft sucking sound. He lifts the curtain of Quentin’s hair to check: Quentin is sucking on the collar of Eliot’s silk shirt. 

“Baby,” Eliot says, not sure whether the cuteness outweighs the value of his tailoring. Quentin doesn’t seem to hear him, so Eliot presses his fingers to Quentin’s lips. Quentin makes a little sighing sound, and sucks them into his mouth. He squirms a little, and then his eyes flutter shut, and he sags into Eliot’s body. 

Eliot glances up, meets the eye of a much older top. She gives him a smile and a nod, like she approves of him. Eliot doesn’t think he’s ever experienced that before: the approval of someone like her. He’s never had a sub who wanted to be public with him. He’s watched other tops and subs and felt loneliness and a sense of contempt. Does anyone really need to snuggle in public? 

They do. He gets it now. 

He rests his chin on the top of Quentin’s head. He can smell Quentin’s pheromones, settling from anxiety to contentment. Quentin’s body is trying to soothe Eliot’s too, wafting pheromones designed to calm his top and make him protective. It’s feral, and Eliot isn’t sure he likes how well it works, since he thinks of himself as more than his biology, but he’s also enjoying it. He buries his nose in Quentin’s hair. Their bodies are answering each other, creating a feedback loop of _good-safe-calm-here-mine._

He likes it, _and_ it’s kind of torturous, because his dick gets harder and harder, rocking up against Quentin’s ass, as Quentin’s wet mouth sucks his fingers, and Quentin makes soft, happy sounds in his throat and leans more and more heavily into Eliot. 

When they’re nearly at their stop, Eliot has to think some seriously unpleasant thoughts about Dean Fogg in order to stand up without indecency, and it’s difficult to shake Quentin into alertness. 

“I don’t want to,” he mumbles as soon as Eliot removes his fingers from his mouth, and he won’t be detached from Eliot’s arms. 

Eliot’s afraid they’ll miss their stop, but once he guides Quentin out into the fresh air, he perks up enough to stand on his own, rubbing his eyes with his fist. “’M’sleepy.” 

“I know you are.” Eliot rubs his back. “Let’s go back to the Cottage, yeah?” 

Quentin lets go of Eliot’s jacket and is content to just hold Eliot’s hand. They make for the portal, and once through it, Eliot guides them towards the Cottage as quickly as he can. They see a few people he knows, but Eliot looks as forbidding as possible to discourage them from talking to him. 

He thinks Quentin will fall asleep as soon as they get to the room, but instead Quentin is nudging his neck, grabbing the front of his vest. “You smell really good. I want to feel your skin.” 

“Do you?” Eliot’s very tempted by Quentin’s warm body pressed up against his own. 

“You have too many layers. It’s too complicated.” Quentin still looks flushed and sleepy, but he’s making headway with Eliot’s buttons, nuzzling at him. 

Eliot lets him take the lead, but once he’s got Eliot’s shirt off, Quentin seems content to nip and lick at Eliot’s neck and chest, biting his chin, vaguely humping at Eliot’s hip. “Want to suck you,” Quentin says, nudging Eliot’s cheek.

“Are you sure you don’t need to take a nap?” Eliot asks. 

Quentin shakes his head vehemently. “Let me suck you, El. I want to taste you. You smell so good, and I’ll feel so safe with you in my mouth. I’m your good boy.” 

He flushes, suddenly, as though he just realised what he said. 

Eliot captures his chin in one hand, kisses him. “You _are_ my good boy.” 

Quentin sighs into Eliot’s mouth, going limp, sucking at his lips. It’s hard for Eliot to disengage him long enough to undo his pants, but when he guides Quentin downwards, Quentin goes, eager, sucking Eliot into his mouth, lips wide, soft. He doesn’t try to take all of Eliot’s cock at once, but he’s firm, impossibly hot, a tense pressure. He wraps his hand around Eliot’s shaft, cheeks hollowing. 

Eliot was so hard earlier that it takes him a moment to get himself under any kind of control at all. Quentin is moaning, body loose, totally lost in what he’s doing, and when Eliot tells him again what a good boy he is, he shivers with delight. 

An embarrassingly brief interval later, Eliot comes so hard everything goes black. He isn’t sure he’s ever come so hard from sloppy head, but there are a lot of firsts with Quentin. His come is all over Quentin’s face and neck, so messy that Eliot ends up having to use a spell to clean him up. Quentin’s hard but he’s also sleepy, and he’s loose and limp as he humps Eliot’s hand, and is asleep almost before he comes. 

Eliot folds him into his arms. 

*

He wakes up warm. So warm. Drowning in honey. 

Then he opens his eyes and – oh. 

Well, Quentin did warn him. He’s wet, the bed is wet, soaked. Quentin’s still asleep, possibly not as wet as Eliot is, because he’s lying on his front, and he peed more on everything else than on himself. 

Eliot’s first thought is how to wake Quentin without upsetting him. And he’s – he’s hard again, because apparently no matter how hard he comes, Quentin’s vulnerability always makes him hot. _Poor baby_ , he’s thinking, _he can’t help it,_ and his cock is twitching in tandem with the thought. 

He rubs Quentin’s back, slow circles, and Quentin mumbles sleepily, and seeks Eliot’s finger, which had fallen out of his mouth while he slept. He licks the tip, tongue hot and tender. Eliot’s cock pushes into the seam between Quentin’s hip and groin, and Quentin rubs obligingly against it. 

Then Quentin grows tense, eyes opening. 

“I’m not mad,” Eliot says immediately. And then, when Quentin doesn’t reply, adds, “It’s not your fault, it happens.” 

Quentin sighs, a sound that’s almost a sob, and looks up at Eliot, pink-cheeked. Eliot traces his lips with his finger. He’s aware, suddenly, that it’s pruney, softened by Quentin’s sucking. And that’s another rush of heat, of desire, because Quentin is depending on _him_ for comfort, Quentin is relying on him, and he, Eliot, wants to give him everything he needs. 

“Your bed,” Quentin mumbles. “I should’ve – I should’ve remembered to take a piss before we went to sleep. I’m sorry, I’m...” 

“I couldn’t give less of a fuck about the bed,” Eliot says. He ruffles Quentin’s hair: soft, dry. “That’s what magic is for.” 

“Should probably still get you a mattress protector,” Quentin says, and ducks his head, nuzzling at Eliot’s hand. “You’re so... tolerant.” 

“Don’t sound so surprised,” Eliot says. He lets himself move his hips, once, gently, against Quentin, and Quentin – smiles a little, and makes a movement, somewhere between a shimmy of his hips and a squirm, and Eliot feels the wetness slide between them. 

Quentin’s piss. It’s so... It’s so intimate, and he can’t stop picturing Quentin relaxed on top of him, trusting his top, giving himself over to Eliot’s care, so much so that his body lets go, relinquishes control. It’s also... cold and sticky, and Eliot knows they need to clean up. His cock doesn’t seem to care about that, doesn’t even seem to mind the discomfort. 

“Other tops hate it – the mess,” Quentin says. “I guess, uh. They think it’s going to be hot? Like in porn? And then it’s just... wet. Even Julia doesn’t... I mean, she doesn’t get mad. But she doesn’t like it.” 

“Oh, Q.” Eliot touches his cheek. He knew Quentin was afraid of being chastised, but the hurt in Quentin’s voice is more than he expected. The fear. “Did they punish you?” 

Quentin shrugs, blinking rapidly. “C-can we get cleaned up?” 

Eliot kisses his forehead. Files the conversation for later. “Of course we can.” 

They shower together, Quentin rosy-cheeked, hair tangling in the water, nuzzling into Eliot’s throat and chest. Eliot’s hands slide in wet circles over Quentin’s body, exploring it in the warm water. His skin is soft, he’s a furred creature, so different from the bodies of carefully waxed gym bunnies. Eliot traces his skin, the hollows of his armpits, the pink of his nipples, the arch of his back. 

Quentin shivers when Eliot touches the soft, small mound of his butt, pressing against him, and for a second Eliot thinks he’s afraid, that this is another source of bad memories, but Quentin looks up at him, open, eager, and as Eliot thumbs slide over Quentin’s butt cheeks, Quentin thrusts his cock against Eliot’s thigh. Lips parting. 

“Y-you haven’t fucked me, yet,” Quentin says. 

“Haven’t I?” Eliot asks, because it felt like fucking when he was thrusting in Quentin’s wet mouth, it felt like fucking when his hand was around Quentin’s little cock; it felt painfully intimate, even, when they lay in each other’s arms. 

“You know what I mean.” 

“I’m.” Eliot swallows, looking down at him. “I’m pretty big, Q. I’ll have to get you ready.” 

Quentin raises his chin. “It’s not like I haven’t done it before.” 

“I’m sure you have.” 

“I can take it,” Quentin says. Eliot can’t quite read the expression on Quentin’s face. 

“If we do it, I want it to be good for you.” Eliot shuts off the water. “And I want to take my time.” 

“You don’t have to.” Quentin pouts. 

Eliot places his hand on the back of Quentin’s neck. The pout is adorable. But. This is important. “You’re precious. I am going to fuck you, if that’s what you want, but you can’t push me to do it. I want to know you’re going to enjoy it. And...” He pauses, thumbs rubbing into Quentin’s skin. “I want you to beg for it.” 

“I can do that right now.” 

Eliot steps out of the tub, guiding Quentin with him. He passes Quentin a towel, and grabs some conditioner for his own hair. He wants to say, _But you don’t need it badly enough, yet,_ but that sounds too cheesy, even to him. Instead, he’s going to take Quentin back into the bedroom, and kiss him until he’s whimpering, and maybe, maybe, guide one finger into Quentin’s ass, and see just how responsive Quentin is to it. And then he’s going to guide Quentin through sucking him off so slowly that they’ll both be shivering wrecks. And he’s going to hold that control, gently, carefully, so Quentin never stops feeling safe. 

That’s what he’s going to do.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains mentions of illness and grief, specifically related to Quentin’s Dad. 
> 
> By the way, [this is Quentin’s lamb.](https://www.jellycat.com/eu/bashful-lamb-bas3lus/)

On Monday, Quentin is pleased with the hours he spent in the library all Sunday. Margo even checked his homework for him. But once he’s in class, he doesn’t seem to know anything at all, and when he answers Sunderland’s question, she says, “That’s a very simplistic view of the problem,” and makes him practise tuts with Penny for the rest of the morning. 

Alice, Julia and Kady all sit together at the front, and do better than anyone else. Alice glares, and Kady lounges in her seat like she doesn’t care, and Julia sits up very straight and takes a lot of notes. 

“Concentrate,” Penny reminds him, “This is the fifth time I’ve said it, and if you keep staring at Alice, I’m going to break my promise to Julia.” 

“I think threatening to break your promise is still threatening,” Quentin says. It comes out kind of whiny. 

Penny rolls his eyes. “God, you’re such a brat.” 

“No, I’m not,” Quentin says instantly, because he _knows_ he’s not a brat, Eliot told him what a good boy he was only this morning, and Penny laughs. 

“You’re so easy.” 

“And you’re not a brat?” Quentin asks. “You’re messy and loud, and you’re always talking back.” 

“I understand discipline way better than you could ever hope to,” Penny says, and he actually looks kind of offended. Then he jabs Quentin’s shoulder. “Concentrate, Coldwater. Fuck.” 

And they do the tuts again and again until Quentin’s head aches, and Sunderland finally tells them they’re doing it right. She doesn’t tell them they’ve done a good job, though: she only says that to Alice. 

Quentin notices Alice is walking closer to Julia than she was before, and they all end up sitting outside during lunch, whereas last week Alice vanished as soon as class was over. Penny’s there, and Kady, and Quentin wonders if this is what it’s like to be part of a friends group. Is he finally cool, now he’s in magic school? 

Penny’s cracking his knuckles, and Kady’s lying on her back with her hands folded under her head. Julia periodically passes her a smoke, or hands her a slice of orange. Alice has her feet tucked up under her and looks really uncomfortable, and eats a sandwich in impossibly tiny bites. 

“What’s it like being the teacher’s pet?” Quentin asks her. 

“This stuff is no big deal,” Alice says. “We’ll all be at the same level soon.” 

“Don’t underestimate yourself.” Julia touches her, lightly, on the wrist. Anyone could touch a friend like that, but suddenly that’s when Quentin knows: they’re into each other. 

And. 

That’s fine. That’s totally fine. That’s good, actually. 

But his stomach suddenly hurts, because what if it’s not fine, and what if it means Julia doesn’t feel the same way about him, and they never resolved it really, did they, the way they felt about each other, whether it was fair for him to lean on her, and – 

“Coldwater?” a voice calls. It’s a student Quentin doesn’t know – maybe a second year. 

There’s a phone call for him at the administration building. 

**

Quentin follows Julia upstairs after class, instead of going to see Eliot, like he wants to, or going to the library, like he should do. 

“My dad called,” he explains, when they’re alone in her room. 

“How’s Ted?” Julia asks, sounding genuinely interested. Quentin thinks Julia probably gets along better with his dad than he does. 

“He sounded... weird. He asked me to go see him.” 

“Weird how?” Julia asks. 

Quentin isn’t sure. “Will you come with me?” 

“You don’t want to bring Eliot?” Julia asks. 

“You won’t be busy with Alice?” Quentin replies which – isn’t entirely what he means to say. 

Julia shakes her head, and then sits down, grabbing his hand. She leans her head against his shoulder. “It’s new,” she says. “You won’t tease her about it, will you?” 

And her voice is so – tender that Quentin immediately knows he won’t tease Alice. He knows that this is something important. He takes a breath, wanting to be good to Julia, to make the same space for Julia as she makes for him. 

“I promise,” he says. 

“Thanks.” Julia squeezes his hand. “I’ll come with you to see Ted. I’d like to. If that’s what you want?” 

It is what he wants. He needs her – presence, her support. He doesn’t know what he’s going to say to Ted. He feels like he gets it wrong, every time he talks to his dad. Ever since it became clear that Quentin was a sub, it felt like he and Ted should understand each other, because Ted was a sub too, but somehow it didn’t work out like that. The fact that they were the same felt like a wedge between them, rather than a bond. Ted is _so good_ at being a sub – so brave, so kind, so nurturing – and Quentin isn’t any of those things. He’s weak, and needy, and Ted never ever said, but Quentin thinks he’s disappointed. 

Ted likes Julia a lot. She makes him laugh. 

**

A few days later, Julia and Quentin portal together out of Brakebills, and then get the train. Quentin doesn’t talk much, but Julia doesn’t mind. They look at one of their text-books together, and then Julia makes some notes while Quentin stares out the window. 

Julia knows that he’s always caught between trying to appear calm and adult in front of Ted, and that he’s anxious when he goes home, and that makes him feel little and submissive. She’s not sure whether to try and snap him out of it, or to rub his neck and help him to relax down. He keeps reaching inside his satchel to touch Lamb, and then after a little while he takes her out and rubs her ear against his nose. Two of his fingers slide into his mouth. 

Poor baby. He must be really nervous. 

She puts her arm around him, and feels him settle against her side. She’s been cuddling Alice a little over the last few days, and cuddling Quentin is such a contrast. Part of Alice desperately wants to be touched, but she’s so careful, and so good at holding back. Sometimes Julia kisses her, and Alice opens to her, eager, but mostly when Julia kisses her, Alice reminds her that they have a lot of work to do. 

Julia likes doing the work too. She likes it a lot. But she can’t stop thinking about Alice – she feels warm every time she sees her, and her scent makes Julia’s heart speed up, like in a romance novel. Kady keeps joking about how besotted she is. 

It’s kind of restful to hold Quentin for a while, and to know he doesn’t want to be in charge. That he’s happy to let himself be held. He’s such a sweet boy: Julia gets mad all over again when she thinks about the people who’ve trampled on him, or taken advantage of him. 

“We have to get off at the next stop,” she reminds Quentin, jostling him gently. His fingers slides out of his mouth with a wet sound, and he starts to put Lamb back in his bag, and then decides against it. Julia takes his other hand. 

Ted meets them, and kisses both of their foreheads. The drive back to his house is quiet: he asks them about school, and Julia struggles for convincing lies, and Quentin lies much less convincingly, and plays around with his satchel and chews his fingernails. Ted keeps asking him if he’s OK. 

“I’m glad you came, Jules,” Ted says to her, when she’s helping him bring drinks from the kitchen. “I’m worried about him,” and he nods his head towards Q. 

“When are we ever not worried about him?” Julia says, before she realises it might not be tactful. 

She passes Quentin the glass of lemonade Ted poured for him, and says, “You should tell your dad about Eliot.” 

Quentin blushes very pink and says, “I don’t know what it is yet.” 

“He’s very handsome and he adores Q,” Julia tells Ted. “They’re very sweet together.” 

Ted is quiet for a moment, and then says, “You’re not rushing into anything, are you, sweetheart?”

“We’re taking it slowly,” Quentin says, which is the biggest lie of the whole day. 

Ted nods. He’s looking carefully at Quentin. “I know you were in hospital. The insurance called me.” 

Quentin’s face falls. God, he’s so dumb. Did he really think Ted wouldn’t find out about that? Julia takes his hand. He checked himself in and out of hospital right before Brakebills: they had an argument about it, Julia worrying about him and trying to boss him around, and Quentin looking grey and tired, and not agreeing or disagreeing with her. 

Julia had almost forgotten about it, though it had been awful at the time. Anything before Brakebills feels like a thousand years ago. 

“I’m OK,” Quentin says. “I’m trying to... I’m going to... take responsibility.” And then he draws in an anxious breath and hides his face in Lamb, which. Doesn’t exactly make his point. 

“He’s been doing better,” Julia says. She thinks it’s true, for the most part. She can’t imagine telling anyone in her family about magic, but suddenly she wants to tell Ted. It seems like he ought to know, like he might be reassured. 

“I’m glad,” Ted says. And then he looks at them carefully, and draws in a deep breath, and tells them that he has brain cancer. 

Julia doesn’t know what to do with herself. She feels like she’s stepped outside her body, and she’s behind a glass, trying to see Ted and Quentin, but they’re blurred and far away. Quentin sits there, hunched, sipping his lemonade, which she knows he doesn’t even like, and he looks so bleak and hopeless, and his mouth opens and closes but Julia can’t seem to hear the words properly. 

She feels nauseous. Ted and Quentin are both distressed, and she can smell their pheromones in the air, a sickly tang. It sticks in her throat. She wants to do something, to soothe the two distressed submissives, but there’s nothing she can do. Her chest hurts. It hurts to look at Quentin: his open, frantic fear.


	15. Chapter 15

On the train home, Julia knows that Quentin’s going to have an accident before Quentin knows it himself. 

Growing up with Quentin, she saw him wet his pants innumerable times, especially when he was stressed. During his parents’ divorce, she’d comforted him on field trips, at the movies, or just in the car, when he’d somehow forgotten he needed to go, or been unable to wait. It wasn’t uncommon for submissives, especially ones like Quentin, who were easily distressed and dropped quickly, but it was still hard for him. 

So Julia knows the signs: the subtle and then unsubtle wriggling, the chewing of his fingers, the quickened breath. Quentin seems almost unaware of what his body’s doing: he’s staring blankly at a book, then at his phone, then reaching into his satchel to check Lamb is still there. But Julia’s pretty sure he’s not going to make it for the duration of the train journey, and even if he does, she’s not certain that there’s a bathroom at the station. 

When he freezes in place on the small seat, and suddenly gasps, she knows what’s going to happen. She finds his hand, and squeezes it, and whispers, “It’s OK, it happens, you’ve had a really hard day, don’t worry about it.” 

“But I’m not a baby,” Quentin says, in a high, strained, anxious voice, and Julia turns to him, and caresses his cheek. 

“No one said you were a baby,” she soothes, though half the time he likes being told he’s a baby. 

“It hurts, Jules.” A little, suppressed sob. “I gotta go.” 

“Oh, honey. I know.” She wants to tell him to just let go in his pants: it’s going to happen anyway, so why torture himself? But she’s also afraid that will upset him more. 

The train is fairly empty. At least there’s that. Julia was with Quentin once when he wet his pants on a very crowded subway, and that was a disaster. They’ve got four seats to themselves, and no one is across the aisle from them. Quentin whimpers. Julia strokes his hair, while trying to angle her body away from the imminent flood. 

“I don’t want to –” he murmurs, and she looks at his little, miserable face, and thinks about how life always seems to be so hard on him, always setting more obstacles when there are already so many.

“I know, lovebug, I know.” It’s meaningless, and she only uses the word _lovebug_ when she feels really bad for him, but it seems to soothe him a little. 

Then he gasps, and hides his face in his hands, and she knows he’s wetting his pants. There’s nothing she can do to stop it or help, not really. She sees the wet stain on his leg, and on the seat. She finds Lamb for him, and he grips the toy, face pale and strained. 

** 

The remainder of the train journey seems to last forever, after that, though it’s really not that long. Quentin sits, silent and miserable, an occasional tear tracking down his cheek. The piss doesn’t really smell yet, but he stinks so much of distress that it makes her feel terrible too. She can sense that the few other people on the train are picking up Quentin’s pheromones and are distressed themselves.. She hears mutters and shuffling feet. 

They walk stiffly from the train station to the portal, and once they’re through, Eliot’s waiting for them. He’s smoking and looking at a text-book. When he looks up and sees them, he tries to affect an air of nonchalance, but Julia doesn’t buy it for a second. He’s clearly been waiting for them. 

Quentin makes a faint sound of distress, and covers his eyes with his hands, as though, if he can’t see Eliot, Eliot can’t see him. 

Julia keeps her hand on the small of Quentin’s back, steadying him. She tries to communicate what a bad day Quentin’s had to Eliot just by eye-contact, but Eliot doesn’t seem to need the help. 

He’s drawing Quentin into a hug, close and firm. Honestly, closer than Julia would hug him, when Quentin’s so soggy. Quentin’s still stiff, but he drops his hands, and burrows his head into Eliot’s chest. 

“I can help,” Eliot says, and suddenly he’s kneeling in front of Quentin, on the grass, and his hands are moving in rapid, distinctive tuts. 

Quentin’s pants dry almost instantly, and Julia can smell, very faintly, something clean and citrusy. 

“There,” Eliot says, and, still kneeling, smooths down Quentin’s pants. Julia is going to have to learn that spell. 

“I’m so embarrassed,” Quentin says. Voice tiny. He makes a little wailing, sobbing sound, so small bleak that it makes Julia’s throat burn. He looks exhausted: spent, done. 

“Oh, baby.” Eliot is looking up at him with such tenderness that it almost seems too much. Julia feels like she’s intruding. “Do you want me to carry you?” 

Quentin’s mouth opens. Julia thinks he probably does want to be carried, to hide in Eliot’s arms, to give up any semblance of control. “I’m too big.” Quentin’s voice slurs a little, as though he can’t make words properly. 

“No, you’re not,” Eliot says. “But I’m going to do a little spell, fuck around with your gravity, make you easier to carry.” 

“OK,” Quentin says, showing a total lack of self-preservation when it comes to Eliot doing spells on him. 

Julia watches the new series of tuts, more complicated than the last ones. “I don’t feel different,” Quentin says. 

Eliot lifts him by the armpits, and Quentin fits against him, koala-style, as if being held like this is the most natural thing in the world. His face nestles into the crook of Eliot’s neck, and he sniffles a little, settling against him. His feet dangle. He looks smaller and more insubstantial than he is: _baby_ , Julia wants to say. She feels a rush of affection for Eliot, because he’s giving Quentin what he needs, and she feels the tension beginning to leave her body, too. 

They walk back towards the cottage, Julia carrying Quentin’s satchel. “Is it hard to do that spell? To make him easier to carry?” 

“Not if you’re a physical kid,” Eliot says. He’s rubbing circles on Quentin’s back. His stride is so long that Julia’s hurrying a little to keep up. 

“Will you teach me?” 

Eliot glances at her. “Yeah.” 

They’re silent for a moment. Julia wants to explain about Quentin, and she’s not sure what to say. Quentin’s face is hidden, now: she can’t read his expression. But he looks relaxed as Eliot holds him. Like he’s handed over his wellbeing to Eliot. 

“He, uh...” she swallows. She figures that Quentin can talk about his wet accident, or not, to Eliot, when the time comes. But she wants to convey something of the day they’ve had. “His dad is sick.” 

Eliot pauses. Looks down at Q, who remains snuggled into Eliot’s chest, showing no sign of moving. 

“How bad?” 

Julia sighs. “A brain tumour. It’s inoperable.” 

“Fuck,” Eliot says, very softly. His arms tighten around Quentin. “Oh, baby.” 

They keep walking. Twigs snapping under foot. It’s not far to the cottage now, but Julia’s almost afraid to get there. The twilight is comforting. She wants to hide, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's been a lot of discussion of wetting in recent chapters: from now on, there'll be less pee for a while. You may or may not find that a good thing! 
> 
> Also, huge thanks to everyone who keeps on reading and commenting. I've been writing this story to get me through both a creative and emotional slump, and I really appreciate the warm response its received.


	16. Chapter 16

They end up on Eliot’s bed together, the three of them, because when Julia bends to give Quentin Lamb, and he locks his arms around her stomach, and says, “Thanks, Jules,” but doesn’t actually let go. 

“Stay,” Eliot says to her. “Do you want a drink?” 

Julia shakes her head. And then says, “Maybe, in a minute.” 

Eliot sits on the other side of Quentin. “What do you need, baby?” 

Quentin draws his knees up to his chest. “Can you. Can you both just. Be here?” he says. 

“We are,” Julia says, and they settle together, Quentin’s head on Eliot’s chest, Julia on his other side. She can smell Quentin and Eliot, both, on the sheets. It’s comforting. 

“Can we fix him? With magic?” Quentin asks. 

Eliot is quiet. Julia waits, wanting him to say yes. Waiting for him to tell them the price. 

“No,” Eliot says. His voice is soft, and strangely final. Then, “I don’t think so.” 

“Isn’t there...” Quentin swallows. “What’s the point of magic, if there’s nothing we can do?” 

“There must be a lot they don’t teach us here,” Julia says. “We can try.” 

Eliot brushes his fingers through Quentin’s hair. He looks at Julia, over the top of Quentin’s head. “There’s a mentorship day coming up. We can talk to those Magicians: some of them might specialise in healing.” He’s quiet. “But if... If no one else can cure cancer, do you really think the three of us are going to figure it out?” 

“Ted is special,” Julia says quietly. 

“No, he’s not.” Quentin’s voice is muffled in Eliot’s chest. “He’s just my dad. He likes model planes and he’s kind of a loner. He worries about me.” 

Julia presses her face into Quentin’s back, into the soft slope of his spine, because suddenly she’s crying. _Ted_ , she’s thinking. _Ted, Ted_. She’s fourteen, sitting with Ted in his drab living room, and he’s talking to her like she’s an adult, explaining what it means to him to be a sub. No one in her family has talked about the types to her, no one seems to notice the changes she’s going through. They just assume she’ll be exactly the same kind of top as they are. But Ted made her tea (bitter and herbal) and told her how it felt to be like him and Quentin, and the ways her endocrine system is different from theirs. She had been feeling crazy, like she needed to yell and smash things, and Ted had helped her to make sense of it. 

She thinks of Ted’s hands, assured and steady, taking her bag from her when she got into his house and putting it in the guest room. Trimming the honeysuckle. Smoothing the newspaper. How Ted was always telling her she was welcome. Ted, thanking her for being there for Quentin. Ted, letting her cry into his shoulder. Ted, inviting her to Thanksgiving, and, while Quentin napped, talking about her classes with her, like he really cared what choices she made. 

Eliot’s saying something softly, and then Quentin’s arms are around her, and she feels an unfamiliar hand rub circles into her back. “It’s OK, Jules,” Quentin is saying. “I’m here, I’m here.” 

His elbows dig into her sides. His hair tickles her face. His shaking too, and, fuck, she feels bad, she’s supposed to be taking care of _him_. She can feel his distress, and the intensity of Eliot’s emotions seeping through, as he tries to soothe both of them, and she shouldn’t be making this harder but she – can’t stop crying – 

Quentin snuffles. He’s tucking his face into the crook of her neck, rocking her. She feels the bed shift, Eliot sitting up. The room is quiet. She swallows, holding tight to Quentin’s sweater, thinking how she was sure they had time. Ted and Quentin had time to learn how to talk to each other. There was time for everything to get better: she thought there would be so many more Thanksgivings where she told her Mom she was studying, and went to Ted’s house, and laid the good flatware on the dining table and lit the candles...

A cold glass in her hand. “It’s just water,” Eliot says. 

She sits up, sips. Rubbing her face with the back of her hand. Eliot passes her a Kleenex. Her breath is coming in shuddery gulps, wet and ragged. 

Quentin looks pale, pinched, holding his own glass of water. She puts her hand on the back of his neck. Rubs. Feels him relax the tiniest bit. 

“I’m sorry for crying on you, lovebug.” Her voice cracks. 

“You can cry on me any time, Jules.” He looks up at her, through his tangled, lank hair. “I’m really glad you’re with me.” 

They’re quiet. Julia’s throat hurts. She can hear Quentin’s breath, unsteady in his chest. 

“Do you want pasta?” Quentin asks her, after a long pause. 

And Julia laughs a little, because Quentin always wants spaghetti when he’s sad. “Yeah.” 

“I’ll make it for you,” Eliot says. 

“Oh.” Julia feels like she’s imposing, suddenly. “You don’t have to. I can – I can go.” 

Eliot holds his hands up. “Please let me feed you both. It is genuinely the thing that would make me feel happiest right now.” 

**

After the pasta, Julia walks to her dorm. Kady’s packing a suitcase, shoving in clothes and magical trinkets. 

“Where are you going?” Julia asks, sitting on the edge of her own bed. 

“Didn’t you hear? We’re getting our specialisations; we’ll be moving out.” 

“Oh, yeah.” She remembers the announcement, but it feels like it was from another lifetime. Julia rubs her face.

“You look awful,” Kady says. “What did Quentin do?” 

“His dad’s dying.” Although she felt devastated earlier, it now doesn’t feel real. They’re Magicians. They’ll find a way to solve it. 

Kady sits next to her on the bed. “Were they close?” 

Julia shrugs. And then nods. “Yeah. In a way.” She looks around the room: she hasn’t really spent that many nights here, and it’s uncomfortable – the beds too close together, the desks rickety – yet it feels like home. “Will we be room-mates?” she asks Kady. 

“Depends on our specialisations. Probably not.” Kady brushes her cloud of curly hair out of her face. “You should sleep. You look wrecked.” 

“Thanks.” She is: she’s so tired she feels like her body doesn’t belong to her. 

“Hey.” Kady puts an arm around her suddenly. She smells like weed, pleasant and herbal. “I thought I’d want to kill any room-mate, but honestly, I barely wanted to kill you at all.” 

Julia presses into her warmth. “That’s nice.” They’re quiet for a moment. Julia touches Kady’s cheek. “Will you still hang out with me, even if you get a cool specialisation?” 

“You’re one of two people I can stand here, so yes.” 

Julia tucks her legs up, onto the bed. She’s taken her shoes off, but otherwise she’s fully dressed. She thinks about undressing, but suddenly it’s too much. She shuts her eyes, thinking she’ll just close them for a second, but then they’re too heavy to open. 

She’s aware of Kady tucking the blanket up around her and a brush of lips against her forehead, softer than a kiss.


	17. Chapter 17

Quentin wakes in Eliot’s bed, in the warm, reassuring scent of Eliot. His body is tucked against Eliot’s side, and Eliot makes a soft sound, almost a growl, when Quentin tries to get up. Quentin touches Eliot’s jaw, looking at the fan of Eliot’s eyelashes against his cheek. He looks tired: and Quentin feels bad, for wearing everyone out. Eliot. Julia. His dad. 

He makes it out of bed to the bathroom, and when he comes back, Eliot’s blinking, rubbing his eyes. Quentin climbs back into bed. It’s early, and his whole body feels heavy, like when the depression’s bad and it feels like his limbs don’t work any more. 

Eliot’s heartbeat under his ear is grounding. 

“It’s early. You can go back to sleep.” 

“I wake up early when I’m not hungover,” Eliot says. 

His fingers settle against Quentin’s neck, and Quentin curls closer to him, feeling a tickle of warmth in his belly. When they kiss, Eliot’s breath is sour, but Quentin keeps kissing him until he can’t taste it any more. 

Eliot pulls away, looking at him with a tenderness that makes Quentin feel embarrassed. Does he deserve it, to be looked at with such kindness? Is Eliot going to get bored of him soon? 

“How are you doing?” Eliot asks. 

Quentin doesn’t really know: he remembers being on the train with Julia. He remembers his sticky legs and groin, and his humiliation. He remembers Eliot carrying him. He feels like he’s locked away the other part, the conversation with his dad, into an iron box, and he can’t let it out right now. 

He shrugs. “Stressed out. Kind of horny. How about you?” 

Eliot snorts. “The same. And worried about you.” 

Quentin leans into him, nuzzles his neck. “Do we have time? Before class?” 

“It’s 6am: so yes.” 

“God, it’s 6am? Maybe I should let you sleep.” 

Eliot kisses the crown of his head, and then his nose. “Do you want to sleep?” 

“Absolutely not.” Quentin slips his hands under Eliot’s shirt, feeling heat and soft hair. He wants to lick Eliot’s skin, to nuzzle him, scent him and taste him. 

Eliot chuckles and pulls off his shirt, and Quentin licks a line along Eliot’s belly, over his navel and down to his groin. He nuzzles the skin there: the softness of it, how it feels almost like the skin of a stone-fruit, lightly furred and easily bruised. 

He nudges his way down further: Eliot’s cock is hard and hot in his pants, and Quentin rubs the length of it through the cloth, feeling it jerk at his touch. The dampness of the pre-come already darkens Eliot’s pyjama pants. 

Eliot gives a little groan, and shimmies out of his pants too. Quentin rocks back on his heels, looking at him. That elegant body: the long lines of his legs, the dark thatch of his pubic hair, the planes of his chest. He wants to touch every part – but he’s needy for Eliot’s cock, he wants to rub it against his face, taste it, scent it. 

“What do you want, baby?” Eliot says, voice low. 

“What do _you_ want?” Quentin asks, letting the tangles of his hair fall in front of his eyes. 

“I asked first.” 

“I want to suck your cock.” The words come out brazen, confident, and he doesn’t think he’s ever felt so assured during sex before, so certain of exactly what he wants. 

“Oh, yes,” Eliot says, and Quentin settles between his legs, kneeling on the mattress, hunched up against Eliot’s groin. It isn’t an elegant position – he feels small and ungainly, so unlike Eliot – but Eliot doesn’t seem to mind, because his hand’s already tangling in Quentin’s hair, and Quentin’s mouth and nose are so full of the sweet, delicious pheromones, the heat and taste of Eliot. 

As he tastes Eliot, he feels like he’s falling, finding a place where he’s calm, where he’s safe, where all that matters is being good, in responding to Eliot. Where he’s contained, like a liquid in a cup. 

He licks all the way down Eliot’s cock, bobs back up to taste the head, sucking it into his mouth, feeling Eliot’s jolt of approval, and licks his way down again. The hair is so thick here, holds the musky scent of Eliot, he wants to lick further, taste _more –_

He’s peeking up at Eliot, the words coming out before he knows he’s going to say them. “Can I eat you out, Daddy?” 

There’s a pause. He realises, suddenly, that he’s never called Eliot ‘Daddy’ before, though it’s been on the tip of his tongue. It feels like the right thing to call Eliot: it fits in his mouth. 

But he’s also afraid it’s the wrong thing to say. But Eliot’s cock jerks against his mouth. Eliot makes a tiny, strangled noise, and reaches down, squeezing the base of his cock. He sits up a little, looking at Quentin, his eyes dark, his cheeks flushed. Quentin a sense of rightness, a feeling he gets as he falls into subspace, a sense that everything is in its correct position, and that all the loud, bad things in the world are very far away. 

Eliot licks his lips. “Jesus. You – you’re perfect.” 

Quentin stays where he is, between his Daddy’s thighs, mouth tacky with the taste of his cock. 

“Oh, baby. You mean lick my ass?” 

Quentin nods. 

“God. I didn’t think you even knew about rimming.” 

Quentin snorts. It’s funny, the way Eliot thinks he’s so innocent. But it’s true that he’s never _wanted_ to lick someone the way he does with Eliot. He’s never longed for it. 

He ducks his head, laps his tongue over Eliot’s cock, a kitten-lick. Eliot makes a little gasping sound, and then says, “For fuck’s sake. Yes.” 

He spreads his legs for Quentin, drawing his knees up, and Quentin feels privileged, treasured. To see this part of Eliot, to be welcomed to it. He bends, nuzzles Eliot’s ass, presses his tongue against the dark nub of anus. The hairs here are long, soft, and he can taste Eliot strongly: the musk of him, complex and bitter. He explores Eliot’s skin with his nose, drawing in the heady scents, tasting and tasting. He’s drooling a little, wet, jaw aching, but he doesn’t want to stop. 

Eliot whimpers in response: makes a soft, needy sound that Quentin’s never heard before, and he cups one hand over Eliot’s cock, feeling the satiny skin and the hardness of it, and Eliot pushes into the touch, arching against Quentin’s fingers. Quentin squeezes him, but he can’t concentrate on Eliot’s cock, his mouth is too busy licking, sucking, he’s too full of the scent of him, everywhere. 

His own cock is hard, he’s half-aware of himself humping the bed, but he doesn’t care, he’s too busy concentrating on Eliot...

“Q... Quentin...” Eliot murmurs. And then, “Baby, put your fingers in me.” 

Quentin stops, looks up at him, uncertain. Nobody’s ever asked him to do that before. “Do I need... lube?” 

Eliot raises himself onto his elbows. His hair is tangled, wild. It makes Quentin smile. He reaches onto the bedside table, groans, and rolls over onto his side so he can search properly. “Fuck, for fuck’s sake,” he’s mumbling, before he throws the tube to Quentin. 

Quentin’s careful, pouring the lube onto his finger, and then rubbing it against Eliot’s anus. It’s wet already, and Eliot makes a sound: pleased, hopeful. The tip of Quentin’s finger slides inside. Quentin’s had fingers in his ass before, his own and other people’s, and he’s liked it to varying degrees, but he’s surprised by how intimate sliding one finger into someone else’s body is. Into Eliot’s body. Eliot shivers in response. 

“More?” Quentin asks. “Am I doing it right, Daddy?” 

Eliot moans, and bucks against him when Quentin says, ‘Daddy’. Quentin’s chest feels hot, his face warm: he’s in the right place, with his Daddy, and he’s making him feel good. 

“Yes, baby, more.” A rough breath. “Two fingers. You’re doing so good. I – I want you to slide them in and out, can you do that?” 

Quentin slicks his fingers, spilling lube onto his hand and the bed sheets. But they glide in, and Eliot responds to the touch by pressing back against Quentin, arching against him. His body is so hot inside, so velvety-smooth, and god, it’s exactly what Quentin’s wanted: to be surrounded by Eliot. 

“Crook your fingers just a little.” Eliot’s eyes are closed, his breath coming quickly. “Towards my navel. Oh y-yes. Baby. You’re so good at this.” 

His fingers press forward, it’s almost too much, this heat, Eliot open for him like this. Eliot’s body yields to his touch, finding space for him. Eliot’s making soft sounds, little hisses and moans, and Quentin feels flushed with pride. “M-mm, your fingers, Q, move your fingers, in and out.” 

It feels so good to do what he’s told, and listen to Eliot’s hum of pleasure. Eliot’s giving him a gift, and Quentin’s greedy, wanting more: wishing he could keep doing this and also nestle into Eliot’s arms, and also suck his cock. He breathes: he finds a rhythm for his fingers, and feels Eliot rock against them, letting him in. 

“Oh you’re so good,” Eliot is saying. “That’s just right. You’re perfect, you’re so good for me, sweetheart, so good...” 

And he feels it: like he’s not the idiot Quentin of yesterday who couldn’t even keep his pants dry: like he’s being remade. He’s good at _something,_ at making Eliot happy, and Eliot trusts him, and it’s all he needs, he feels like he could do this forever – 

Eliot’s breath is rough, hips bucking. He reaches down, wraps his hand around his cock. Quentin closes his fingers over Eliot’s hand so they’re both stroking Eliot’s cock, the warm glide of it sliding in and out of their hands. He moves in tandem, timing his fingers in Eliot’s ass with his hand on Eliot’s cock. He’s lost in it: the skin on skin, the rich scent of Eliot’s arousal. 

As though from far away he hears himself whimpering. Eliot’s stopped talking except to murmur, “Yes,” and, “Good boy,” but it’s enough. The heat rises. That silky pressure, the velvet cock in his hand, Quentin shuts his eyes, living through the movement of Eliot’s body, and Eliot’s body around his fingers – 

Eliot makes a rough, desperate sound as he comes, something Quentin hasn’t heard yet, either, and he feels proud, smug, so pleased with himself. He carefully draws his fingers out of Eliot’s ass, and stays where he is, kneeling between Eliot’s legs, listening to Eliot’s breath slow down. 

“Baby.” Eliot swallows. “Come here.” 

He’s opening his arms, and Quentin squirms up against him, buries his head in Eliot’s neck. Smells Eliot’s body on his skin, and his own body on Eliot’s skin. He already misses being between Eliot’s legs, tasting Eliot’s ass... He reaches for Eliot’s hand, and slides the now-familiar fingers into his mouth. He doesn’t suck on them, he just holds them there, and he sighs through his nose, feeling his body grow limp. 

“That was so good, you are so good with your mouth...” Eliot’s saying. “You’re so hard, baby, I can feel your little cock...” 

Quentin’s aware that he’s humping Eliot’s thigh, just a little, his hips rocking. It’s soothing more than satisfying. But he doesn’t care: he’s suspended in time, safe in Eliot’s arms, Eliot’s fingers in his mouth. 

Eliot tries to move him, slide him out of his arms, and Quentin clings on, mouth still fastened around Eliot’s fingers. “Baby, I’m not going anywhere.” Eliot touches Quentin’s cheek. “I just wanted to blow you. Do you want that, hmm?” 

Quentin licks Eliot’s hand, tongue sliding between the two fingers in his mouth. Of course he wants Eliot to blow him, but – but he also doesn’t want that. And it feels strange, because he can’t ever remember saying no to something like that before, and he’s never liked someone as much as he likes Eliot’s so why wouldn’t he want it? 

But he nuzzles at Eliot’s hand, and shakes his head. “Your hand, Daddy,” he murmurs. “Just use your hand. I wanna stay here.” 

Eliot presses his forehead to Quentin’s. His breath comes out soft, a sigh. “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, and Quentin feels safe, and cherished, and it’s such a big feeling he has to close his eyes and suck on Eliot’s fingers hard, or he might spiral away. 

His cock is hard, balls tight. Eliot’s hand is so strong, so practised. It’s so different from how he would touch himself, and at first it’s almost too much.

Eliot’s talking as he jerks him off, but Quentin only catches some of it: “...I’ll be on top of you, and I’ll press against your little cock, and you’ll slide into me, and I’ll fuck you so slow...” and later he hears “...How about a blindfold, hm, baby? I think you’d look beautiful...” 

Then he’s coming, and his eyes fall shut, and nothing seems to exist aside from the heat of Eliot’s body next to him, and the feeling of those fingers in his mouth. 

“You can sleep a little before class,” Eliot’s saying – Quentin can barely remember what school is – “but we have to clean up first.” 

Quentin slowly lets Eliot remove his fingers from his mouth. “I’m clean.” 

“You’re really not.” 

And Quentin realises: he’s sticky, his stomach, his face, his thighs. But his legs are shaky, and all he wants is to lie here. 

“Come with Daddy,” Eliot says, and his voice is playful now. He half-lifts Quentin from the bed, and Quentin stands, uncertain. He allows himself to be guided to the bathroom, and then that feels good too: Eliot being in charge of everything, of cleaning him, of giving him his toothbrush, of reminding him to pee. It’s like a dream, and Quentin lets it all happen. He’s never trusted someone like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter count keeps changing because I initially thought this fic would be around 15K, and now the draft is around 42K and I expect it will get longer, so I have no idea how many chapters this will be. A LOT I GUESS. Thank you so much to everyone who reads this and takes this journey with me.


	18. Chapter 18

Alice isn’t surprised to be a physical kid, and she isn’t surprised to meet Quentin at the door to the Cottage. She can never get rid of him. As he practically lives here already she asks, “Is there a code word?” 

Quentin tries turning the handle, as though she hadn’t already. “We can sneak around the back.” 

“It’s supposed to be a test,” Alice says. 

“We’re supposed to get in. It doesn’t matter how.” He sounds more confident than usual. 

Against her better judgement, she follows Quentin to the back door. He performs a simple tut, and the door swings wide, into a clean but cluttered kitchen. Quentin holds the door for her, “After you.” 

“I could have figured out the front door,” she says. 

“I know,” he agrees. He doesn’t sound like he’s humouring her, but does actually believe her. “If anyone asks, you can tell them I encouraged you to cheat. Peer pressure.” 

Alice snorts: sometimes she kind of likes him. “As if you could successfully pressure anyone.” 

“I can be very persuasive.” He’s grinning a little. 

Maybe he is: he’s certainly got a lot of tops fawning over him. She doesn’t say that, though. “El?” Quentin calls as he opens the door to the main room. 

Lots of students are lolling around, day-drinking and chatting. “Cheaters!” Margo says. She’s smiling, though, holding her arms wide to them. She smells _really good_ , Alice can’t help notice, somehow exciting and reassuring at the same time. Like she could take Alice apart, but she’d put her back together again afterwards. She can tell Quentin notices it too. 

“We got in, didn’t we?” he says. 

“You did.” Eliot comes over, passing cocktails to both of them. He puts his arms around Quentin’s shoulders, gently rocking him back into his arms, and kisses the top of his head. She smells their pheromones rise: pleasure and comfort and arousal. It’s a nice scent, calming, but it also makes her feel uncomfortable. She doesn’t want their cloying affection to work on her, too. 

“Come with me, kitty-cat,” Margo says, linking arms with her. “I’ll let you try on my clothes.” 

“I don’t want to try on your clothes.” 

“Well, you should, because it’s a privilege, and I can’t believe you’re hiding those tits under a sack.” She lowers her voice. “I could make you irresistible to Julia.” 

She’s drawing Alice towards her bedroom. Alice doesn’t want to follow, but she finds herself asking, “What do you know about me and Julia?” 

“Oh, sweetie.” Margo laughs. “It’s obvious. And you’re very cute together, in an intense, nerdy way.” 

Alice sips the drink Eliot gave her: it’s strong, faintly herbal. She can’t really recognise what’s in it, but it’s very pleasant. “We’re not together.” 

“Fair enough.” Margo gestures Alice into her room, motions Alice to sit on her bed. “Play the field. That’s a good plan.” 

“I’m... I’ve got other things to do.” The bed sinks around her, and Alice regrets sitting on it. 

“Mm, yes. Your air of tragedy. I know.” 

Alice stands up. “No, you don’t.” 

“Oh, don’t leave. I’m trying to be your friend.” 

Alice feels very tired, suddenly. She has to move her things from the dorm, and she needs to study, and she’s trying to lock all the feelings and pheromones up in a box and never look at them again, but it’s _so hard_ to do that. “It doesn’t feel like you are.” 

“Sweetie.” Margo draws in a breath. “I really respect the way you try to alienate everyone and never let anyone in. It’s a brave choice, and I’d do it too if I could. But we’re going to be living together, and I think you could be one of the people I actually enjoy.” 

Despite herself, she feels a tiny bit flattered. “I don’t usually make friends with tops.” 

“Well, you don’t seem to like Quentin either, so your options are limited.” 

Alice sits back down on the bed. Margo smiles at her, and, God, her smile is _radiant._ Alice feels a tremor of warmth go through her. “Everyone likes Quentin so much.” 

“He makes us tops feel good. Even me, and I usually don’t like people who are so saccharine. He’s so responsive, and it’s so easy to figure out what he needs.” Margo sighs, taking a swallow of her drink. “Eliot loves that. He just wants to be good to people.” 

Alice thinks about that. “You’re different, though.” 

“When people depend on me, it makes me feel itchy.” She pauses. “I hadn’t realised how much I liked being Eliot’s most important person, though.” 

“You’re lonely.” It’s surprising to imagine Margo being lonely: needing anything. 

“No, I...” Margo glares at her. “Don’t tell anyone, kitty-cat.” 

Alice wants to object to the pet name, but this time she finds she kind of likes it. She isn’t sure she likes Margo, but maybe Margo isn’t as bad as she thought: she’s intense but she doesn’t seem like the kind of top who expects subs to jump to her every need. 

“You look tired,” Margo says. “Drink your cocktail. You know what they say about all work and no play...” 

“I’m fine. I’m here to help my brother, so I need to learn.” She’s not actually sure she is fine: she doesn’t remember the last time she was fine. It’s meaningless: she can’t be fine without Charlie. 

“I thought he was a niffin.” Margo finishes her cocktail, leans back against the pillows. She arranges her arms carefully, as though making sure she looks as attractive as possible. 

“He is.” 

“You can’t rescue a niffin, sweetie. I actually read up on it when you and Julia came back from New York.” She says it like she’s made a great sacrifice by doing a little research. 

Alice resents the ‘sweetie’ now. “You don’t know that.” 

“He’s gone. The magic burnt out the part of him that made him your brother.” 

Alice turns her face away. “I don’t want to talk about this. I’m going to find my new room.” 

“Do you want help setting up?” Margo’s voice is as gentle as Alice has ever heard it. 

“No.” 

**

Alice doesn’t go up to find her new room. The noise of the party, the smells of pheromones, make her feel like she’s choking. She leaves the cottage, gulping in the fall air. 

Julia is walking up the path towards her. 

“What’s wrong?” she asks immediately, and Alice takes a breath, checks her wards. She wishes she could control her pheromones as easily as she can her wards, because it’s obvious that Julia can smell her distress. 

“Did you find out your discipline?” Alice asks. 

“Knowledge seeker,” Julia says. She can’t hide a grin. “I’m supposed to live above the library. Fogg told me himself. Kady’s a physical kid, though, and so’s Quentin, and so are you, so it’s going to be lonely.” 

Alice doesn’t think Julia will ever be lonely: all her people love her so much. “That’s an unusual one,” she says. There aren’t that many physical kids either, but some years there aren’t any knowledge seekers at all. “I can see it, though. It’s... It’s more obvious with you, what your discipline is, than it is for most people.” 

Julia touches her hand to Alice’s arm. Her hair brushes Alice’s cheek. “But really, what’s wrong?” 

“I don’t want to talk about it here.” 

“Let’s go back to the dorm, then,” Julia says. “We can finish packing.” 

Julia joins Alice in her old room. “Will you miss this place?” 

“No. The cottage might be worse, though. I’ll have to put up wards to keep out the noise.” 

“You can always join me,” Julia says. “I doubt the other library nerds will make a wild crowd.”

That actually sounds nice: the quiet attics above the library, both working together in the dusty smell of books and magic. And Alice’s imagination provides an image of herself, tied to Julia’s bed, Julia running a crop up the inside of her leg. The hush of the library below them. Her voice soft as she says, “Don’t make a sound. I haven’t put up any silencing wards.” 

Alice swallows: where did _that_ come from? 

“It will be nice to be so close to the books,” she says.

Julia takes her hand, a little smile flashing across her face. “It will. Don’t tell Kady, but when I was a kid I dreamed of living in a museum or a library.” 

“Me too.” Alice lets herself lean a little more into Julia’s touch. Julia strokes her cheek, and gently brushes back a strand of Alice’s hair. 

“Do you want to go study?” Alice asks. 

“No.” Julia leans forward. Her mouth is soft, inviting. Alice smells her in the air: the joint she and Kady smoked earlier, mixed with a scent of dominance, musky and inviting. Alice lets her deepen the kiss: she wants to sink into it. She wants to sink to her knees, press her face into Julia’s stomach, Julia’s fingers tangling in her hair, Julia guiding her face into the heat of her crotch... 

“I do, I have to go...” Alice pulls away, rubbing her face with her hands. Rubbing away the taste of Julia. 

Julia is silent. “Alice...” she stops. “We can go back to being friends, if that’s what you’d prefer.” 

It’s not: Alice knows that immediately. No. She wants Julia. She wants her so badly sometimes it brings tears to her eyes. But she – she can’t concentrate on this. Nothing is important right now, not until she finds Charlie. 

“I...” Alice shakes her head. She can’t say it. She can’t say she doesn’t want Julia. But she also can’t stay here. “I don’t have time.” Her voice comes out thin and needy. She’s already pushing the door open.


	19. Chapter 19

It’s Quentin who finds her at the fountain. Of course. The sky is dark now, the day drawing away. Alice hasn’t eaten: she feels light-headed and hard-edged. She kneels at the edge of the fountain, two books in front of her, thinking about what Emily Greenstreet told her. 

“Julia said you were upset.” Quentin’s voice is soft and careful. 

“Oh, go back to your Daddy,” Alice snaps, before she knows what she’s saying. 

A long pause. “Look,” Quentin says. “I don’t know what people have told you, but it’s not actually bad to depend on other people. I like Eliot. That doesn’t make me bad, Alice. I’m not betraying you, or all the subs in the world, or whatever you think, by needing someone. I don’t know why that makes you hate me. Maybe you should think about that? Because I make my own choices, and I respect myself, and I... I’m not the enemy here.” 

She’s never heard him speak for so long. His voice cracks. She didn’t think he could stand up for himself without his top behind him. Suddenly, Alice wants to cry. She swallows down the feeling. 

“I know,” she says at last. “I know you’re not bad.” She looks at the water. What would Charlie say? “I’m sorry, Quentin.” 

“It’s OK,” he says immediately. She kind of wishes he would push back a little, make her work for it, but she guesses that’s not who he is. “Can I help?” 

“I’m...” Alice looks at the books in front of her. Julia would tell her what she’s doing isn’t wise. She doesn’t know if Kady would help. She doesn’t think Penny would, unless he could get something out of it. But Quentin... Quentin will want to help. 

Quentin will be easy to manipulate, she thinks. She doesn’t like herself for thinking that, but she figures she can work on her issues once Charlie is back. 

“Yes, you can help,” Alice says. “These spells require a lot of energy. Maybe you can be my anchor?” 

Quentin sits beside her on the edge of the fountain. “Are you sure you don’t want to ask Julia? She’s like, actually good at magic.” 

“They wouldn’t have let you in here if you didn’t have some talent,” Alice says, which is true. “You’re just learning. Stop being so distracted, and you’ll get better.” 

He flinches a little. Did she say something wrong? She was trying to be kind. 

“What can I do?” Quentin asks. 

** 

Afterwards, Alice mostly remembers a feeling of unspooling, like something she held very hard and tight is slowly unwinding. And of a blue light, behind her eyes: a blue so brilliant it becomes white at the edges, like on the very hottest day. 

She’s aware of her hands moving. She’s aware of the power: not just within her, but all around her. The magic is open to her, it wants to let her in. If she just lets go, she’ll be part of it. She’ll be stronger, more powerful, than ever before. 

She’s doing it. She’s better than any of the other Magicians. She’s better than Charlie. She’s bringing him back. She’s bringing him back to her...

Then she sees him: a blue light crackling under his skin, but the familiar face. The slope of his nose, the tilt of his mouth. She’d forgotten what it was like to see him in three dimensions. To have him _there..._

She doesn’t recognise his grin. He’s never looked at her like that before: hungry. He says something, but all she can think is that she’s coming for him. She’s going to save him. She’s going to mend all the broken things. 

The light is so bright, and the magic runs along every one of her nerves, and it’s more than she ever thought... 

It’s undone. The awareness crackling along her limbs vanishes. She’s kneeling by the fountain. Charlie isn’t there. She could feel him, she could see him, and now she’s empty. 

All she can think is: _I was so close. I was so close!_

She’s crying and shouting at the same time. She’s barely aware of what she says to Quentin. She’s only aware of her sadness and her rage. Her body is shaking, rough and painful and raw, and she feels like she drank too much and her brain was put in a blender. She wants to hide. She wants to run. 

She’s so alone. She’ll never be whole again. 

She staggers back towards the dorms, her breath like acid in her lungs. 

**

“So you scared the hell out of Quentin.” 

Kady is here, as well as Julia. They’re both striding into her bedroom, as though it belongs to them. 

“Don’t worry,” Alice says. “I’m leaving.” 

“What happened?” Julia’s reaching for her, her eyes soft, as though Alice hadn’t rejected her just that afternoon. 

“Quentin said you almost niffin’d out.” Kady sits on the bed beside Alice’s suitcase. “Jesus. You need a drink.” 

“That’s not the answer for everything,” Julia snaps. 

“I know.” Kady’s holding her fingers in a diamond-shape, checking Alice for magical damage. “Hmm. Turn around for me.” 

“No.” Alice keeps shoving clothes into her suitcase. Her hand lands on Phaedra, the stuffed horse Charlie gave her, and she pauses. The tears are tracking silently down her cheeks. She can’t stop them or even hold them back. 

Kady puts her hand on Alice’s shoulder, guiding her around in a circle so she can look at her from all angles. She’s standing close to Alice, looking down at her, her usual smirk replaced with concern. Alice realises her breath is quick and stuttering. Kady’s examining her, her fingers moving in a series of tuts so quick that Alice can’t quite keep up with them. 

“I think you’re OK,” Kady says. “I’d suggest you go to medical, but we all know what a drag that is. You should probably rest and drink electrolytes.” 

“What good will that do?” Alice snaps. 

“Well.” Kady steps back, folding her arms as though she’s solved the issue. “You’re exhausted, and you’re probably dehydrated from all the crying.” 

“I don’t...” She sniffs. “I’m busy. Can you just go?” 

“Alice, honey...” Julia begins, reaching for Alice’s hand. 

Alice backs away. “Fuck you.” 

“Hey.” Kady’s in her space again. She towers over Alice. “We’re your friends, however much you want to push us away. And we’re concerned. You could have died tonight, Alice, so you don’t get to tell us to fuck off. You can leave Brakebills if that’s what you want, but don’t leave tonight. Chill the fuck out for a second and let Julia take care of you.” 

“No.” Alice’s eyes are blurring with tears. “I can’t. I came here for Charlie, and I... failed. I was so close and...” She’s trembling. She doesn’t know what to say: suddenly, she wishes she _was_ dead. “I need to go.” 

“OK.” Julia looks at her: gaze sharp, considering. “I’ll come with you. I don’t feel comfortable with you travelling by yourself at night, especially not when you feel like this.” 

Alice wants to let go. She wants so badly to sink down onto the bed and bury her face in Julia’s chest. She doesn’t know what else to do. She doesn’t want to leave Brakebills, and she doesn’t want to stay. She doesn’t want anything except to stop hurting. “I can do what I want.” Her voice cracks as she says it. Her chin is trembling. She feels pathetic. 

It’s not Julia who pulls her into her arms. It’s Kady. The hug is fierce. Kady’s chin digs into the top of Alice’s head. Alice’s legs tremble, as though they don’t want to support her any more. She hears herself whimper, a raw, ugly sound. 

“We’ve got you,” Julia says, and her hand is on Alice’s back. She guides her down onto the bed. 

“I miss him.” Alice isn’t sure the words are making sense: her voice is falling apart, turning into sobs. This can’t be happening. “Is he really not coming back? Really?” 

She’s being held by Julia and Kady. Kady is rocking her. She can smell them both so strongly she can almost taste it. They’re containing her: she feels like she’s still spiralling out, like whatever began at the fountain hasn’t stopped. The sobs that burn her throat feel as huge as the magic that went through her: too much for her body to hold. But Kady’s holding her, and so is Julia. She doesn’t have to keep herself together. She lets the sorrow rise, spill, and overwhelm her.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for references to emotional abuse

Quentin can’t stop trembling. He smells magic on his skin and in his hair. Margo pushes a glass into his hand: he can smell booze. He’s not totally sure how he got onto the couch in the living room of the cottage. He remembers talking to Julia and Eliot. Behind his eyelids, he can see the magic swirling around Alice, like an after image of the sun. His head pounds. 

Margo sits behind him. Eliot hovers. 

“Do you want Lamb?” Eliot says, and Quentin feels a surge of warmth. No one but Julia’s ever really understood about Lamb before. 

Quentin can’t help but nod, and Eliot goes upstairs to get her. “Mama says drink your whiskey,” Margo says, putting her hand on the back of his neck. 

He sips obediently: the sharp nip of whiskey reminds him of the taste inside Eliot’s mouth when they kiss. “I thought she was going to die,” Quentin says. 

“Yeah. She’s mad right now that you saved her life, but she’ll get over it,” Margo says. 

“She’s lucky.” Eliot has returned with Lamb, and he sits on the other side of Quentin. He snuggles Lamb in his arms, rubbing his cheek against her soft paw, as he breathes in their scent: the herbal spice of Margo; the smoky musk of Eliot. He can almost taste them in his throat, and that, more than anything, soothes him. 

“She had no business fucking around with something like that,” Eliot is saying. 

“She just wanted to see her brother.” Quentin can understand that – what it’s like to need someone so badly that you’ll do anything. He saw the desperation on Alice’s face, like an open wound. 

“She shouldn’t have involved you.” Eliot’s gripping him hard, his breath tickling Quentin’s hair. “If she wants to risk her own life, that’s up to her, but she shouldn’t have dragged you into it.” 

His voice is so harsh Quentin flinches instinctively. He swallows. “I wanted to help.” 

“Poor kid. She puts a lot of pressure on herself.” Margo’s fingers dig into Quentin’s neck as she speaks. It’s nice. 

Eliot snorts. “Not enough, clearly.” 

“Don’t be a dick just because you’re worried about Q,” Margo says. “He’s OK. She’s never getting her brother back.” 

“ _Are_ you OK?” Eliot asks. He pulls Quentin into his lap, settling Quentin against his chest like he’s Eliot’s personal stuffed animal. Arms squeeze tight around his middle. Some of the whiskey spills, and Margo takes the tumbler from him. 

She takes a sip herself, and then holds it to Quentin’s lips. “Finish it, you’re still trembling.” 

She tips it into his mouth, and Quentin has to swallow or choke. He coughs a little, throat and eyes burning. The whiskey is a glow in his chest. He doesn’t know if it steadies him or not, but he feels his face grow warm, and his teeth no longer want to chatter against each other. 

Eliot pats his back. “Are you OK now that Margo is done choking you?” 

“Oh, that wasn’t me choking him,” Margo says. “If I’m choking him you’ll know, and we’ll establish limits beforehand.”

“Nobody’s choking Quentin,” Eliot says, sounding scandalised. 

“Not even if I’m good?” Quentin’s voice comes out a little squeaky, because he suddenly has an image of Eliot’s big hand at his throat, and Eliot’s expression, focused and tender, as he controls Quentin’s breath. For a second it makes him completely forget about all the terrible things that happened so far that evening. 

“I keep telling you, this boy is much kinkier than you think, El,” Margo says, patting Quentin’s hair approvingly. 

Eliot takes a deep breath. He begins to speak, then seems to stop himself. 

Quentin nestles his head back against Eliot’s shoulder. “It was scary. I couldn’t feel the magic, not like Alice could, but I could feel something – big, bigger than either of us. And then the – the niffin was there, and I thought he was going to hurt her – or me, I guess.” 

“You did good,” Margo says. “Stopping her. She would’ve died.” 

They’re quiet then, Margo’s words settling against them. Eliot kisses Quentin’s temple, “You did a good job, Q,” he says, gentle. 

Margo leans over and kisses Quentin’s cheek. But all she says is, “I’m going to bed.” 

** 

They go upstairs not long after Margo. Quentin pauses outside Eliot’s room. “I have my own bed here now. I could... sleep in it.” 

Eliot, who is still mostly wrapped around him, says, “Why would you want to do that?” 

Quentin chews his lip. He’s trying to think of an excuse, because the real reason – Well, Eliot knows about it, but Quentin still doesn’t want to say. But nothing else comes to mind, so he squeezes Lamb hard and says, “I had a really hard night. I might – I’ll probably wet the bed.” 

Eliot – _laughs_. Quentin feels himself stiffen all over. He’d been – bracing himself for Eliot to get mad at him, at some point, about this. But not to actually _laugh_. “OK,” Quentin says, swallowing, and pulls away. 

“Oh, no, baby, no,” Eliot says, and Quentin stops, more because a dom is telling him _no_ than because he wants to. He knows all about consent and his rights, but – his body also really wants to do what it’s told. “Of course I want you with me. I just – how can you think it’ll make any difference to me if you wet the bed?” 

Quentin lets himself be drawn through the open door to Eliot’s room. Eliot’s voice is gentle: even his laugh, Quentin realises now, was more exasperated than mocking. But he still feels anxious. “Well, it makes a difference to _me._ I keep – I keep waiting for you to get mad.” 

Eliot rubs his eyes, like he’s tired, or like he’s _tired of Quentin_ and all his stupid problems. But he sits on the bed, and looks up at Quentin. He doesn’t look mad, or even frustrated, although Quentin feels like he must seem pretty stupid, standing there awkwardly, clutching Lamb to his chest. 

“You had a really difficult day,” Eliot says, and his voice is careful, like he’s considering the words. “And I get that it might mean you have a bad night. And that a bad night often leads to a wet bed. I know, baby.” He pauses, smoothing his vest, and then begins to undo his buttons as he speaks. “And that’s – that’s why I want you here. Because I want to look after you. Because I don’t know if you understand, but – but part of why I like you is because you’re cute and you give _the most_ enthusiastic head, and I want to stop going to class or – or even partying – so I can entirely devote myself to find all the different things we can do with each other, but also – _also_ a really big part of this, for me, is that I get to look after you. Because I’ve – because the way I’m built is that I want to take care of people, and the ideal person for me to look after is a sweet, vulnerable boy, and every time you – you let me take care of you is a gift, sweetheart. A gift. And if that means making sure you’re clean and dry so you can sleep well that’s _not a problem_. I like it. Honestly, it makes me feel _good_. It makes me feel useful, and I’ve also – I’ve also jerked off three times, at least, to thinking about you wetting your pants, so...” 

Quentin sinks down to his knees on the floor in front of Eliot. He can’t help it. He can barely take in what Eliot’s saying, because on some level it’s exactly what he knows he needs to hear, but it’s also _so big_ , realising someone feels like that about him, and he doesn’t know how to process it. He drops his head because he can’t look at Eliot full on right now, and he shuffles forward so can rest his head on Eliot’s lap. 

The room is very quiet. He can hear Eliot’s breath. “Thank you, Daddy,” he says, very softly, against Eliot’s knee. 

Eliot sighs – a long, shuddering sigh, like he might cry. Then he puts his hand under Quentin’s chin, and guides his face up, so they’re looking at each other. “Do you believe me?” Eliot asks. 

He – he does believe Eliot. He’s never known Eliot to lie to him. He wants to say ‘yes’ right away, because that’s what Eliot must want him to say, but – but he doesn’t. Eliot’s truthful with him: he has to be truthful with Eliot. 

Quentin is thinking about the first year of college, how people gave him alcohol and cigarettes, and petted him, and liked telling him what to do. He and Julia had been – had been trying not to be so codependent, as Julia had put it, and he’d been lonely until he realised that there was something he could give people other than his stupid problems and needs. He could give them his body, and they liked it, and he felt so – so special, suddenly. 

He tries to sketch it out for Eliot, but it’s hard, because it doesn’t totally make sense to him either. “I – I dated a woman. In undergrad. I slept with – a lot of people, because I’d sleep with pretty much any top who asked. Be-because I didn’t ever feel anything good, except when I dropped, and I...” 

Quentin drops his eyes, letting his head fall back onto Eliot’s lap. He holds Lamb close, rocking a little. It’s hard to remember all those times, when he knelt for whoever asked, and let them do what they liked because he – he didn’t care what happened to his body. Whether it hurt, whether he wanted it. 

“And you – what, baby?” 

“I slept with a lot of people, and in hindsight, mostly it sucked.” Quentin breathes in Eliot’s smell: there’s a bitter of tang in the air, because they’re both upset, and Quentin desperately wants to soothe, to make it all better. But he keeps talking. “And then I met Natalie and she – she liked me. We were – dating, I guess. People th-thought I was doing better. I was more – stable. But...” Quentin nuzzles into Eliot’s pants. He’s told Julia, and therapists, that Natalie wasn’t good for him, but he’s always struggled to put any of it into words. He wants to explain to Eliot, but he still doesn’t know how. “She was a little older than me. We met at the end of freshman year, and then we dated on and off through the summer, and then the next year...” 

He pauses, thinking about opening the door to Natalie’s studio apartment. The smell of that room: lemon and basil. How she’d be working on her thesis, but she’d look up, when she saw Quentin, and give him a nod. A very precise look of acknowledgement, and he’d kneel for her. Until she was ready to deal with him. He remembers how the wooden floorboards felt under his knees. The quiet of that room. The waiting. 

But the words that end up coming out aren’t really the ones he intends. “She didn’t want me to have Lamb. I couldn’t bring Lamb to her room, and if she caught me sleeping with Lamb she’d – punish me. She – thought it was funny. To punish me for that.” 

Eliot rubs his hand over the back of Quentin’s neck. “Fuck her,” he says. The scent of his distress is making Quentin feel nauseated. 

“And she said it was OK, that I – I had accidents. She said lots of subs do. She said it was normal. But then she’d – she’d get mad. It turned out it wasn’t actually OK. And it...” Quentin’s head spins. He grips Lamb hard, harder. “It wouldn’t have been so bad if she’s just told me. That she hated it, that she’d punish me if it happened. But I never knew what would make her angry. Or make her stop speaking to me. And I guess...” 

Under his cheek, Eliot’s leg tenses. Eliot’s fingers jerk in his hair. 

His throat hurts. “You’re so – Eliot, this is so good. I do trust you. I do. It’s just. No one else has been like you, and I... I’m afraid....” 

“I know,” Eliot says. He’s leaning over, his arms around Quentin as Quentin buries himself in Eliot’s lap. “I understand, baby. You – you’ve already given me so much trust, darling. You give me so much. I’m so...” He swallows, and Quentin thinks Eliot might be crying too, which is... He doesn’t know how he feels about that. What was he thinking, Quentin wonders suddenly, when he wandered into Eliot’s life and sank to his knees? He wasn’t thinking. His body was just – doing. He had no sense of self preservation. He deserved what he got. 

And yet: he’d made the right choice. Being with Eliot was – was so much better than he’d thought anything would be. 

“I’m so proud of you,” Eliot tells him. 

That’s too much. Quentin digs his hands into Lamb, feels himself shiver with emotion. All he ever wants is for a top to be proud of him, but it’s also... There’s no reason for Eliot to be proud of him. He’s a wreck, he... 

Eliot’s climbing down off the bed, kneeling beside him on the floor. Pulling Quentin against him, so they’re wrapped around each other. Eliot rocks him. 

**

Quentin’s wiped out by the time they’re ready to go to bed. They help each other through the motions of getting ready: bathroom, teeth, taking off clothes. Eliot passes him pyjamas, and Quentin shakes his head. “Can we be naked? I just... want to feel your skin.” 

They curl up, facing one another, legs entwined, foreheads touching. Eliot threads his fingers through Quentin’s hair. Quentin can feel his eyes drifting shut. “I’m proud of you too,” he says, trying to get the words out before sleep overtakes him. 

“You are?” Eliot’s voice is amused. 

“Yeah...” Quentin wriggles even closer, relaxing against the heavy pressure of Eliot’s arms. “It’s vulnerable being a top, too,” he explains. He heard that before, but he never really understood it, until now. “And you did a really good job talking to me. It’s hard to be you, like it’s hard to be.” 

Eliot’s quiet for a moment. “It’s easier now I have you.” 

“We should probably talk about this more.” Quentin’s falling asleep. “Communication’s important.” There’s something else he wants to say. Something about sex, and getting fucked, and something Margo said. “Margo...” he begins, and then no more words come out. 

“I’m Eliot, sweetheart,” he hears, but he can’t explain what he meant. He nuzzles at Eliot’s neck, letting sleep take all thought away.


	21. Chapter 21

Julia didn’t sleep much on the narrow bed with Kady and Alice. Kady had a lot of leg, and kept kicking in her sleep, and Alice, after crying so much, snored. But she liked lying on one side of Alice, with her arm spread over her, touching Kady’s shoulder. She was watching them both: guarding them for the night. She liked the soft sounds they made, and learning the rhythms of their bodies. She dozed and woke, dozed and woke, dozed and woke. She held Alice close, glad to feel her warmth against her. At first she could only smell Alice’s distress, and then as time passed she became aware of another, deeper scent, herbal and soft. It made her feel calm. 

She was somewhere between dreaming and waking when Kady jolted alert, and jostled Alice as she climbed over them, stretching, making her way to the bathroom. The sun had risen. 

Alice stiffened, and then made a little noise of protest and buried her face in Julia’s chest. It wasn’t what Julia had been expecting, but it was adorable. She stroked Alice’s silky hair, murmuring, “It’s OK, sweetheart.” 

Alice didn’t reply for a long time, and then turned her head, pressing her nose into the junction of Julia’s shoulder. “No, it’s not.” 

“I know.” She could feel Alice’s grief in the room, almost palpable, a blanket. Her chest was heavy. 

“You stayed,” Alice says. “You and Kady.” 

“Of course we stayed.” 

Kady comes out of the bathroom, stands at the end of the bed, looking down at them. “I’m starving,” she says. “Do you want to break out and go to that place near the station, with the good pancakes?” 

**

Julia watches Alice soak her pancakes and bacon in a lake of maple syrup. She eats slowly, eyes flicking around the diner. They’re sitting across from Julia: Kady applying herself with great concentration to her own platter of pancakes. Julia sips coffee, nibbles French toast, watches them. She feels a sense of primal satisfaction, like she’s a lioness taking care of her pride. She kind of wishes she was bringing home an antelope instead of asking for a second bottle of syrup of Alice. 

Kady sits with her elbows on the table once she’s finished her food, watching Alice. Her eyes are half-open, sleepy. Julia’s tired too, after last night, but she’s also feeling wide-awake, like she could do almost anything. She pours some more coffee for Kady. 

Alice finishes her last piece of bacon, and stares at her sticky fingers as though she doesn’t know what to do with them. 

“You all done?” Kady asks. 

When Alice nods, Kady takes a handful of napkins from the dispenser, dips them in the water jug, and cleans Alice’s hands thoroughly. She looks at Alice’s cheeks, and cleans them, too. At this, Alice screws her face up a little. “I’m fine,” she says. 

“You were sticky,” Kady says, calmly. “Now you’re not.” 

Julia feels that same animal warmth, as she watches Kady take care of Alice. A sense of rightness. She tries to swallow it down: they’re not anything, the three of them. They’re just three people who happened to spend a night together, fully clothed. 

“Do you still want to leave the school?” Kady asks Alice. 

Julia swallows. She isn’t sure she would have felt brave enough to bring it up. 

Alice is quiet for a long time. Her voice is rough as she says, “I don’t know. I don’t know what the point of staying is. I wanted to find Charlie. I... I don’t know what to do now.” 

“Brakebills have the monopoly on magical knowledge. They shouldn’t, but if you don’t have Brakebills credentials life as a Magician is really fucking hard,” Kady says. “There are a lot of fucked-up things about the place – I keep hearing Margo talking about leaving, and I don’t blame her. But you’re a really good Magician, Alice. I think you should stay at least long enough to figure out if there’s someplace better you can go.” 

Alice adjusts her glasses. “Do you want to stay, Kady?” 

“I have to stay.” 

“I want to stay,” Julia cuts in. “I’ve barely gotten started here. There’s so much...” 

“Why do you have to stay?” Alice turns in her seat, gazing keenly at Kady. 

Kady brushes her hair out of her eyes and lets it fall back down again. “Are we sharing secrets? Cards on the table?” 

“Of course,” Julia says, reaching over to touch Kady’s hand. 

“Shut up, Wicker, you don’t have any secrets.” 

“I could have secrets,” Julia objects. 

“OK.” Kady pushes their plates to the edge of the table. Picks up her coffee. Sips. “One secret each. Never to be divulged beyond the pancake house. You first, Julia.” 

She turns her hand, holding it out for Julia to shake. Julia takes it. Kady looks at Alice. After a moment, Alice reaches out and takes it too. “I think I’ve told you all my secrets,” Alice says. 

“You’ll think of something,” Kady says. 

They’re all still touching. Warm skin. Julia wonders if the others feel the same rush of comfort that she feels when they touch. She doesn’t want to let go. She hopes they feel the same. 

Alice draws away first. She folds her arms over her chest, making herself smaller. Julia holds her coffee cup between her hands, trying to draw comfort from its warmth instead. “You’re right,” she says. “I don’t have any magical secrets to tell. I’m boring. I can make a horrible emotional confession though, if that would help cement this alliance. Or whatever it is.” 

Under the table, Kady jostles their knees together. Julia thinks it’s affectionate. “That works.” 

There are a lot of stories Julia could tell, but she’s been thinking about this one a lot since she heard that Ted was sick. “When I was thirteen, my mother had my dad committed. He’s in... I guess a really upmarket psychiatric facility. I used to visit him a lot, but he never really – he stopped engaging with me. He never seems to want to leave. Or to want anything, really. And I can’t figure out if it’s because he’s actually ill, or if he just wants to get away from my mother. If it just feels... safer there than the life he was living.” 

“Jesus, Jules,” Kady says. 

“There’s not the secret.” Julia turns the coffee mug. “It’s that I’ve kind of forgotten about him. When I found out that Quentin’s dad was sick I... I felt so scared. I don’t want Ted to die. I tried calling my own dad, because I realised that... Well, that dads can die any time. And he didn’t want to talk to me. He doesn’t always feel up to talking, and it’s stopped hurting... I’ve stopped caring.” 

Alice looks at her, eyes very clear and blue. “Families are really hard,” she says. It seems like the understatement of the year, but the way she says it, so gentle and heavy with emotion that Julia knows she means more than the words she’s saying. She reaches for Julia’s hand. It’s so rare for her to initiate any kind of affection that Julia feels her throat grow hot. 

“You need some serious therapy,” Kady says. Her tone is strident, but her face is kind. “Rich people. You’re different levels of fucked up.” 

Julia raises her eyebrows. “Thanks?” 

They’re quiet for a moment. The door swings open nearby, letting in a gust of wintry air. The babble of voices is comforting. 

“You next.” Kady nods to Alice. 

“I don’t have any secrets left.” 

“You must. Your family are Magicians, right? The magical families are the weirdest.” 

Alice looks uncomfortable, and Julia glances at Kady. She doesn’t want to push Alice: she’s been pushed far enough already in the last twenty-four hours. 

But Alice raises her chin, like it’s a challenge, though her eyes don’t quite meet either of theirs. She pulls her hand out of Julia’s. “I’m the best. At magic. In our class, anyway. Probably in all of Brakebills. I try to hide it a little because... even if I don’t show how good I am, I still stand out. And I...” She bites her lip. “I want to be _better._ I want to prove subs can be as good – _better than_ – tops. But I also hate standing out. I hate how surprised people are by me. Sometimes I just want to... let someone take charge of me...” 

“Alice.” Kady’s voice is soft. “Has it ever occurred to you that you can have both? That you can be the best – though I’m going to be some _serious competition_ – and you can get topped as much as you want?” 

“I...” Alice shuts her eyes. “I can’t. If I let go, if I lose focus, I’ll...” 

It’s killing Julia not to hold her right now. She looks so sad. “You’ll what?” 

“I’ll give up. It’s so hard, and I’ll stop trying. I’ll just... be someone’s sub. I won’t be me any more.” 

Julia’s throat hurts. Alice’s arms are wrapped around herself, and she’s rocking slightly from side to side, like she’s trying to comfort herself. She wants to start explaining why Alice is wrong, why it doesn’t have to be that way, but Kady cuts in. 

“You know,” she says. “Things might not be so hard if you let yourself drop once in a while.” 

“I _know_ ,” Alice snaps. “That’s what people tell me _all the time_. But I – What if I end up like my mother? Everything is about her needs. She never thinks about anyone else. Being her kid is like – having everything that makes you _you_ whittled away by her needs.” 

“She’s a dom?” Julia asks. 

“She’s a sub,” Kady says, looking at Alice. “Isn’t she?” 

Alice nods, staring at her plate. “She only cares about herself and about being a sub. Her whole life is about... being petted and played with. It’s gross.”

“But you’re clearly not going to end up like her.” Kady taps her fingers on the table. “You have the most work ethic of anyone I’ve ever met.” 

“It’s your turn,” Alice says, turning in her seat so she can glare at Kady. “You tell us something good.” 

“We’re still on you.” Kady meets Alice’s glare with one of her own. 

“Fair’s fair,” Julia says. Her instinct to protect Alice from discomfort is burning in her, even though she knows it might actually be good for Alice to talk about this more. “You’ve been mysterious and cool long enough, Kady. Spill.” 

Kady cracks her knuckles. She looks uncomfortable now. “God. I’m such an idiot. Why aren’t we having this conversation over a beer.” 

Julia kind of wants a drink too. She spreads her legs out, letting them brush against Kady’s. “We shook on it, remember? You’re safe.” 

“I’m not safe from you hating me.” Kady’s eyes look wet. “I made friends with you because I thought you’d be useful. You’re smart, and preppy, and I thought... You’d help me get access to the good stuff. I... I’m not like you. I’ve always known about magic.” 

“And?” Julia’s face is hot. “Was I useful?” 

“Not particularly. Alice is... more useful.” 

“What do you need us for?” Alice asks. 

“I have a deal. With a hedge witch. No – my mom has a deal with a hedge witch. I go to Brakebills, I steal spells for her, objects, whatever. And she lets my mom live.” 

Kady stares down at the table, then back up at them both. Her hair falls into her face, obscuring her eyes. Julia’s heart thuds. “Can’t you tell someone? Someone should help you – here at Brakebills. This isn’t right.” 

“No.” Kady snorts. “Magic isn’t kind. You get yourself into trouble, you get yourself out of it. Maybe some Magicians have friends in high places. I don’t.” 

“What about your Mom?” Alice asks. “Is she a Magician?”

“She’s a crappy hedge. She can barely work magic, but she’s addicted to it. She’ll do anything to get her hands on more. She cares about it way more than she cares about me.” 

“Jesus.” Julia reaches for Kady’s hand. After a moment, Kady lets her take it. “I hardly ever meet people with moms more fucked-up than mine.” 

Kady rolls her eyes. “Yeah. We’re the Mommy Issues club.” 

Alice shakes her head. “I don’t want to be.” 

“But you have the biggest Mommy Issues in the room,” Kady says. 

“Well, I want to be in a different club.” Alice is pouting slightly. 

Kady meets Julia’s eyes. There’s a tiny glimmer of humour there. “What club do you want?” Kady asks. 

“The Have Each Other’s Back club?” Alice shrugs. “I want us to look out for each other. We’ll help Kady deal with her hedge witch, and we’ll... we’ll be a support system. Because Brakebills doesn’t have one. We won’t let each other get lost.” 

“I like that,” Julia says. She feels so proud of Alice: that, though she was so hurt by everything, she’s still offering to give something to them. 

“Does that mean you’re staying?” Kady asks. 

“For now,” Alice says. 

Kady nods. “Me too. For now. Until we’re bigger than this place.” 

“Should we shake on it again?” Julia asks. 

Kady shakes her head. “Let’s go do our goddamn homework together.”


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quentin's non-canonical struggles with classes will eventually make sense in the plot of this, I swear. As much as there is a "plot" of course.

Quentin’s not doing well in class: Sunderland keeps frowning at him, and he wishes he could disappear into the ground instead of having Fogg snap at him. He does study – he’s got better at studying. He, Julia, Kady, Alice and Penny have an informal study group, but it’s kind of depressing because it’s so obvious that he’s struggling the most. He prefers when Margo sits down with him, which she can be prevailed upon to do a few times a week. She assumes that everyone is much worse at magic than she is, which means that she never seems particularly surprised by how spectacularly bad Quentin is, and he finds that comforting. 

He should be more down about it: knowing that magic exists, but that he’s so bad at it that he might flunk out of magic school, is a pretty bleak place to be, but his mind is so taken up with other things that it’s hard to focus on that. It’s fair to say that Eliot owns most of his brain: in some ways Q is happier than he’s ever been. And then there’s Ted: he feels so scared he doesn’t know how to to talk about it. 

There are moments when a spell works for him, when pieces of a broken cup become whole, when a glass sphere becomes molten liquid, when smoke turns into a sailing ship, and he feels a sense of rightness. Like he really is a Magician. He does belong here. And magic is real, and it can do _anything_ – But those moments are almost worse than all the times he fails, because they demonstrate how things _could_ be. 

It’s too cold to be outside now for long periods, but Quentin and Julia are huddling in the library doorway, sharing a smoke. They could easily each smoke their own, but it’s been a habit since middle school to share one cigarette between them, passing it back and forth, and they do it without thinking. Quentin stands slightly in front of Julia in order to block the wind. 

“I spoke to Ted,” Julia says, smoothing her hair out of her face. “You should call him.” 

Quentin’s chest hurts. He takes the cigarette from her. “I thought we were talking about Popper 28.” 

“Now we’re talking about Ted.” 

“How’s Alice?” Quentin asks. “Have you guys had sex yet?”

Julia smacks him, lightly, on the upper arm. “You’re a dick.” 

“Or Kady? Or Penny?” Quentin passes back the smoke. “Are you into him, or is it just Kady?” 

“Are you asking if Kady’s into Penny, or if I’m into Penny?”

“Well, Kady’s obviously into Penny. Good luck with that. He seems like a lot of work.” 

Julia rolls her eyes. “Says Mr. Low Maintenance.” 

“I’m a very good boy,” Quentin says, because Eliot says it to him so often it almost feels true. 

“Sometimes you are. Right now, you’re a brat, and you’re changing the subject.” 

Quentin shrugs. He leans closer to Julia in the cold doorway. “Well, yeah. Because I don’t know how to talk about it.” 

Julia lights another cigarette from the one they just smoked. “I think you need to talk to _him,_ though. Bring Eliot over. Introduce Ted to your life.” 

His stomach hurts. He failed a test today, which means he might not pass Intro to Herbalism, and he doesn’t even know why he failed it, because Margo went over it with him last night. When he looked at the test, the words blurred and became meaningless, and he wasn’t sure if it was magic or just his brain being a dick. He feels blank and sore inside. 

He wants to tell Julia that he’s afraid to call Ted, because he’s let Ted down. He doesn’t think he can save him with magic. Even if Eliot and Margo and Julia all helped, he’s so afraid that anything they tried would just hurt Ted. Like Alice almost destroyed herself with magic. But he feels like he’s failed Ted. By not trying, he’s proving all over again that he’s a bad son, that he doesn’t love his father enough. 

It’s impossible to put into words. 

Instead, he just says, “Let’s go inside. Maybe Kady will go over the Poppers with us.” 

* 

Quentin wakes up at around three in the morning. Eliot is asleep on his stomach, wheezing a little through his nose. Quentin sits up carefully, making sure the bed is still dry. He sits for a while under the blankets, watching Eliot. He doesn’t think he’ll get back to sleep for a while: his brain has already inserted approximately two hundred anxiety thoughts into his consciousness, and it’ll take a while for them to go away. Which sucks, because he’s really tired: his eyes burn, and his jaw aches. 

He puts on socks and a sweater, and takes Lamb with him, padding down the dark stairs and into the kitchen. One of the lights is on, but Alice is sitting so still and quiet that he almost misses her. She’s holding a cup, staring at nothing. 

“I usually have cereal when I can’t sleep,” Quentin says. “What’s your poison?” 

Alice blinks. Her eyes are red, and the bags under them are huge. “My dad makes tea.” She puts the cup down, the spoon clanking against the inside. “I’m not sure I actually like tea.” 

She looks so sad. Quentin wants to hug her, because it’s what he always does when someone is sad, but he’s not sure she’d want that. Instead, he gets the box of Cheerios from the cupboard, and two bowls. 

“I like Honey Nut better,” Alice says. 

“Me too.” Quentin looks into the cupboard. “We could put some honey on them?” 

They try it. They end up sticky, with the milk oddly sweet. They crunch in silence. Alice eats quickly, as though she’s been hungry for a long time, but has only just realised it. 

“Do you want another bowl?” he suggests, when they’re done. 

Alice shakes her head. She stirs the last drops of milk. “I haven’t really apologised to you.” 

“For what? I thought you were mad at me.” 

“I’ve realised that it’s kind of...” Alice pauses, twisting her fingers together uncomfortably. “You saved my life. It’s kind of unreasonable to be mad at someone for that.” 

“A lot of what we feel is unreasonable,” Quentin says. He’s put Lamb on her usual chair at the table, but now he takes her back, rubbing his fingers over her ears. “I don’t blame you.” 

He can’t read Alice’s expression, but she quiet for a long time. She’s looking at Lamb, and for a second Quentin wonders if she’d like to hold her. Then Alice says, “I have a horse. Her name is Phaedra. Charlie gave her to me. A plush horse, I mean.” 

Quentin isn’t surprised by that at all. “Is she here?” 

“She’s upstairs.” Alice twitches, awkward, not looking at him. 

“Maybe she could meet Lamb some time,” Quentin says. 

“How are you so...” She sighs, collecting herself again. “So open all the time. How do you let people in?”

“Um.” He bites his lip. “I think there are a lot of reasons. I probably lack some self preservation? That I should have? But also I’m just really needy? Like you said before.” 

“S-sometimes I wish I could ask someone for help. Julia, or Kady. Or even you. But I... I don’t know how.” 

“Well.” He resettles in the chair, tucking his legs underneath him. “I think you kind of did, just there. We could both go talk to Julia, if that would help. She probably wouldn’t complain if we got into bed with her.” 

She flinches a little, looking startled. 

Quentin swallows. “I just mean... to cuddle? But yeah, maybe that’s not a good idea. I think Julia really – really wants to look after you. Or just hang out with you. So you don’t have to be scared.” 

“But that’s what I’m afraid of. Since Charlie... Since I lost everything, I don’t want to let anyone in. I didn’t ever want anyone except Charlie, not really.” 

He chews his lip. Alice’s problems are different from his problems, but he knows what’s like to be lonely and scared. He feels it deep in his guts. “It’s hard,” he says, although that feels inadequate. “Alice, it’s really hard. You don’t have to let us in any more than you want to.” 

She blinks. Her mouth moves. “I would like Lamb to meet Phaedra some time,” she says. 

“That’d be nice.” 

“Why are you up anyway?” her eyes meet his, wide and tired. “Why aren’t you in bed with Eliot?” 

“Sometimes I don’t sleep.” He shrugs. Suddenly, he misses Ted, in a way he doesn’t usually miss his dad. He misses falling asleep on the living room couch after a bad night, and waking up to see Ted in the kitchen. Clothes in the dryer. Smell of coffee. Sunlight. Newspapers. All those pieces parents wrap around themselves, that make them seem like they know what they’re doing. Like they have a plan. 

It’s so scary to know there isn’t a plan. 

“Do you want to do a puzzle?” Alice says. “I’ve got one upstairs. Van Gogh’s Sunflowers.” 

Quentin looks at her, surprised. Puzzles seem kind of frivolous, for Alice. 

“I’m actually really good at puzzles,” he says. 

“Me too.” 

*

It’s sunny, the Saturday he and Eliot travel to the house Quentin grew up in, but cold and frosty. It’s not really Quentin’s home any more, but when Ted opens the door, he still feels a wave of comfort and familiarity. It smells like glue and clean laundry. 

Eliot tried on at least three different outfits before they left, although Quentin told him it didn’t matter. Ted wouldn’t notice. But he can kind of understand it, now, when he sees Eliot take his coat off, and smooth down his vest. The clothes are part of the courtesy he extends towards Ted, part of demonstrating that he’s a good boyfriend. 

Quentin lingers in the corridor, wishing he had better control over how he presents himself. He’s just noticed that there’s a coffee stain on his hoodie, and his fingers are inky. He didn’t sleep well last night, and he knows he’s pale with dark circles around his eyes. 

Ted and Eliot are somehow both fusing with the napkins and the coffee mugs: Eliot in a careful, meeting-my-boyfriend’s-dad kind of way, while Ted’s glancing at Eliot like he can’t quite believe he’s real. Quentin thinks of all the time Ted spent with him in the hospital, reading or filling out forms, or simply sitting, and how hopeless it felt. He isn’t surprised that Ted is shocked Quentin has brought home such a frankly gorgeous top. 

“So how did you meet?” Ted asks, when they’ve finally distributed coffee and cookies and sat down. 

Quentin draws his legs up to his chest. He’s thought about various things he wants to say to Ted, and he’s spoken to Julia about what to say, as well as to Eliot, but he hasn’t actually anticipated this question. He’s been thinking too much about how to describe Brakebills. 

“On Quentin’s first day,” Eliot says smoothly,“I was assigned to be his student guide. I didn’t expect to find him so completely charming.” 

Quentin wonders how he says that with a straight face. It’s much better than, ‘Well, Dad, I bumped into him, gave him a blowjob, and then dropped for him, all within the space of two hours, and he hasn’t been able to get rid of me since.’

Ted is smiling. “And you’re on the same programme as Q?” 

“About that, Dad.” Quentin wants to get it over with. Pull off the band-aid. “I have something to show you.” 

Ted fixes him with a look of mild indulgence, as though he’s eight and asking to put his drawing on the refrigerator. Quentin glances at Eliot for reassurances: Eliot is sitting carefully upright on the old couch. He looks completely composed, but Quentin can see the tension in his muscles. He nods encouragingly at Q. 

So Quentin gets down the box with the model aeroplane he broke so long ago, and sets the pieces out on the table. The tut for this is easy: he’s fixed various different things over the last few weeks, mainly crockery he’s broken, and the pieces always jump together under his fingers, like they don’t want to be severed. It’s good to know there is something he can do, because so many of the spells go awry under his hands, or don’t work at all. 

He’s concentrating on the pieces, on finally healing the aeroplane that’s been broken for so long but as he works, he’s struck by the wonder of it. Magic is real: he feels the joy of that in his bones all over again. The plane settles, whole again on the table. 

He meets Ted’s eyes. Ted is looking at him, his face shining. Quentin expected flat-out denial: that might Ted assume Quentin was tricking him, or that he was losing his mind. Instead, he sees pride in Ted’s face. Pride and... delight? 

“Oh, curly Q,” Ted says. “Tell me all about it.”


	23. Chapter 23

When Alice gets back from the library, she hears the yelling. The kitchen door is closed, but she recognises Margo’s shrill voice, and Kady’s annoyed grumble. Penny and Quentin share the couch in the living room, sitting remarkably close to one another. They look like two cats being brought to the vet: they don’t like each other, but they dislike the situation more. 

Alice can’t blame them. The acrid scent of angry tops fills the air, and she wants to get out of there as fast as she can. 

“What’s going on?” she asks instead. 

Quentin’s sucking on his fingers, and he doesn’t take them out to answer, so his mumble is completely incomprehensible. Penny gives him a disgusted look and says, “Quentin was upset so Margo kicked us both out of the kitchen.” 

Alice perches on the edge of the couch. “Why?” 

“Well...” Penny glances at her, and then away. “You know how Kady steals stuff...” 

Alice nods. She isn’t sure exactly what Kady has told Penny, but she knows Penny has Kady’s back. 

“What?” Quentin says, fingers popping out of his mouth. “Kady steals stuff?” 

“Shh, the big kids are talking,” Penny says. “Kady took something of Margo’s. A spell she’d been working on.” 

There’s a crash from the kitchen. And then a low murmur. “Should we get Julia?” Alice asks. 

“She’s already in there,” Penny says. 

Alice’s stomach hurts. She thought Julia would be able to smooth over something like this. The pheromones in the air remind her of fights in her family home. But she doesn’t believe in running from her fears: she’s not sure what she can do, but she doesn’t want to sit outside the situation, like a scared kid. This involves her, too. 

“...I’m not saying you can’t rip off the administration,” Alice hears Margo say as she pushes the door open, “But I expect a level of basic trust...” 

She stops when she sees Alice. “Not a good time, sweetie.” 

Kady is standing by the refrigerator, arms folded over her chest. Julia is between her and Margo, clearly trying to mediate. There are several broken plates on the floor, and in the middle of the table sits an amulet that’s pulsing with power. 

“It’s not Kady’s fault,” Alice says. “She’s being blackmailed...” 

“It _is_ her fault: she was dumb enough to steal from me, and get caught,” Margo says. She’s practically baring her teeth. Alice can understand why Quentin needed to get out of there: at some physical, primal level, she just wants to do what Margo says. She doesn’t want to make Margo mad. 

But she stands straight, jutting out her chin. 

“I thought we’d moved past that,” Julia says. “Hadn’t we agreed that you and Kady would come to an understanding?” 

Margo huffs. 

“We had,” Kady says. She glances at Alice, then at Julia, clearly communicating that she wants to have a conversation without Alice present. Which – naturally – makes Alice feel incredibly curious. “You can’t make me leave,” Alice says. “This is a common area.” 

Margo smiles suddenly. “She’s so cute. I love her claws.” 

“Don’t patronise her,” Kady snaps. 

“And don’t talk about me like I’m not here!” Alice feels her hands ball into fists. 

“Alice.” Julia’s voice is calm and a little tired. “This is a tense situation. You’re not helping. I’m going to let Kady and Margo finish hashing this out. Will you come with me?” 

Alice sighs. She feels bad that Julia is always the mediator. Although, Alice thinks that Julia kind of likes it. “OK.” 

Julia takes Alice’s hand as they leave the others, and gives it a squeeze. Her cool fingers send a rush of feelings through Alice, and her knees become a little unsteady. But Julia lets go again before Alice can properly process it, and goes over to Quentin. She pats his head, smoothing back his hair. “Let’s go upstairs,” she says. “Do you want to come, Penny?” 

In Quentin’s room, Penny sits at the window, smoking a joint. He offers to all of them, but only Julia takes a brief hit. Quentin has immediately slumped onto the floor, kneeling, and put his head in Julia’s lap. Alice sits next to Julia on the bed, carefully rearranging some of Quentin’s stuffed animals so that she has space. 

The room smells of Penny’s joint, but also of pheromones: uncertain submissives and angry tops. As Julia pets Quentin, he calms down a little, and the scent of him settling makes Alice feel better in response. 

“What’s going to happen to Kady?” Penny asks. 

“Nothing. Margo’s not going to go to the admin, and we’ve talked her down from actually injuring Kady. She’s just posturing.” Julia rubs her forehead. “They need to snap at each other, that’s just the kind of tops they are. Besides, Margo was interested in hearing about the hedge network.” 

“Is she going to blackmail Kady too?” Penny glances at the door. He looks like he might storm down there and fight Margo, but Alice is pretty sure he only _looks_ that way. Kady and Margo have kicked him out once: he instincts will tell him to follow their wishes. 

“No. Margo’s pride is wounded, that’s all,” Julia says. “She’s mad that Kady was able to sneak around for so long without her noticing. Maybe they’ll end up being friends when this is over.” 

“You’re a very optimistic person,” Alice says. 

Penny snorts with laughter. “Yeah.” 

Quentin shifts against Julia’s legs, and she reaches down to tilt his head up so she can look into his face. “Hey, baby. Do you need anything? Water? Potty? Lamb?” 

Her tone is gentle and practical. She’s looking at Quentin with such – tenderness, and such familiarity. Like they know and understand each other. Alice’s eyes burn. She remembers Charlie looking at her like that and checking that her needs were met. And – she wants Julia to ask her things like that. To pet _her_ hair, and cuddle _her_ , and make sure _she’s_ OK. Not stupid _Quentin_. He already has Eliot: how come he gets Julia too? 

Quentin shakes his head. “I’ll be – better in a minute.”

“Take your time,” Julia says, all soft, as though she likes having him leaning against her leg. Quentin slides his fingers into his mouth, and Alice wants to grind her teeth. Sometimes she wants to suck something for comfort, but she doesn’t, because she’s a – a grown up woman, with responsibilities. 

Then Julia looks at her, as though she can read Alice’s mind. Alice quickly checks her wards, to make absolutely sure she can’t. “What about you two? I know there were pheromones all over the places.” 

Penny shrugs, as though it had zero impact on him, and Alice hadn’t caught him curling up against Quentin. 

“None of you are scary,” Alice says. Quentin has a dragon made of extremely soft plush: Alice can’t stop herself from petting it as they talk. 

“Don’t tell Margo or Kady that,” Julia says. 

“I knew it would be fine, once I heard you were there,” Alice replies, even though it isn’t completely true. 

“You did?” Julia smiles suddenly. 

Alice lets her body relax a little, so she’s leaning into Julia’s warmth. She lets her head melt against Julia’s shoulder. It feels so nice: Julia’s so small, but somehow her presence fills the room. When Alice isn’t mad at him, there’s even something comforting about Quentin, and the little snuffly sounds he makes as he snuggles into Julia. 

She feels the bed dip beside her. Penny’s joined them too. He passes the joint to Julia, but Alice knows it’s a pretence: he wants to share in their warmth too. 

They end up basically snuggling. Which is. Fine, it’s not like it’s against _the rules_. It’s pretty normal for subs to seek physical contact from each other, and she and Julia are – maybe dating, or something. But it’s a little weird to feel Penny’s arm on her waist, and settle down on Quentin’s bed, which he’s basically turned into a _nest_ of stuffed toys and pillows, and it feels so safe and cosy that it – it should be stifling, but somehow it isn’t. She’s practically purring as she rests her head against Julia’s chest, and she doesn’t even mind when Quentin crawls onto the bed and settles against their legs.

It creates a feedback loop of comfort, their mutual comfort and affection feeding into itself until the room is so calm that Alice feels every part of herself relax. She realises that Quentin’s head is on her hip, and her hand is his neck, and her face is pillowed against Julia’s boobs. Julia and Penny are holding hands across her. She could just – sink into this forever. Why does she fight against it, when other subs, like Quentin, let themselves seek as much affection they need to? When everyone is so gentle and so happy, and she feels so complete? Suddenly, from nowhere, she’s crying, deep, rhythmical sobs. She doesn’t feel sad, exactly, she feels safe, so safe it’s as though she can finally let go of something she’s been holding onto for too long. 

Quentin nuzzles into her shoulder, and Julia’s rocking her, and they’re both telling her she’s OK. But no one seems surprised, no one makes her talk about it, and that makes the feelings almost bearable – almost cathartic – 

When the door creaks open and a draft of cold air streams in, Alice feels herself startle all over. 

“Hey, Mama’s done fighting,” Margo says, and then pauses. “Wow. Julia, this is quite the nest you’ve created. Taking all the subs for yourself?” 

Alice is barely aware of what Julia says, but she knows she quiets Margo, and a long time goes by before Penny suggests they go and get something to eat. 

**

So Alice has absolutely no reason to feel lonely that evening. She spent all that afternoon indulging in an obscene amount of physical affection, and now she needs to finish her assignments and get to sleep before 3am. And yet she feels scared and vulnerable, as though she did something wrong. She goes to the bathroom and washes her face and neck in cold water, trying to pull herself out of whatever funk she’s in, but instead the shock of cold on her flushed skin makes her want to cry. 

Almost against her own volition, she’s in the corridor, looking at the closed doors. Quentin’s door is open, but he’s not in there, and Eliot’s is shut and warded. She can hear murmuring from behind Margo’s door. Kady’s room is at the end of the corridor: Alice hasn’t been in there often, but she knows it’s warded tight, and Kady’s furnishings are Spartan. 

Still, she tries knocking. 

Her heart beats in her throat, and her eyes feel wet. She wishes – she wishes she were kneeling for Julia, like Quentin had done, and she was small and safe, and all the big feelings in her stomach would just go away forever. 

Kady takes a while answering. “Oh,” Kady says when she finally open the door. “It’s you.” Then she looks at Alice for a second longer than Alice is comfortable with. “Kid. Come in.” 

Alice objects to the ‘kid’, in principle, because even if tops mean it in a friendly way, and even though subs use it when they talk to each other, it’s still patronising. But she also kind of likes hearing it said in Kady’s voice. 

There’s nowhere to sit, really, aside from the bed. But Kady doesn’t have to sit as close to Alice as she does, in the warm dip of blankets. She’s so close her hair tickles Alice’s cheek. “How can I help?” she says. 

“I..” Alice breathes. “I was just checking you were OK. After today.” 

“I’m fine.” 

“What did you say to Margo?” Alice plays with the fraying cuff of her pyjamas. 

“We worked it out.” Kady shrugs. “I promised to do her a favour.” 

“I’m not a child. You can tell me.” 

Kady looks at her. She touches Alice cheek, her thumb grazing Alice’s cheekbone. “I know you’re not. But honestly, it’s not a big deal. She wants to know how to get in touch with the hedge network. She wants a way out of here, if she needs it. And I don’t blame her.” 

Alice’s heart began pounding at Kady’s touch. She’s sure she’s releasing a cloud of pheromones, that Kady can tell exactly what she’s thinking and feeling. She should get out of here. 

“What about you, huh? Are you OK?” 

Alice nods. Kady leans closer to her: tickle of long hair, scent of skin. Alice wants to run away, but instead she feels like she’s sinking. Or like she’s become porous, like she can’t separate herself from the people around her. 

“Liar.” Kady leans closer to her. “I’m not a child, you know. You can tell me.” 

Alice smiles a little. “Screw you.” 

“Lie down with me,” Kady says. “I didn’t get to join this afternoon’s orgy.” 

“It wasn’t an orgy!” 

“I know what I saw.” She puts her arm around Alice’s shoulders, brusquely, like they’re drinking buddies, and squeezes. “Come on.”

They lie facing one another. Alice has lain with Julia like this: before that, hardly anyone. 

“You must have dropped down far today.” 

Alice shakes her head. 

“You’re still half in subspace, kid. That’s why you feel so raw. Julia should have stayed with you.” 

“We had work to do,” Alice explains. She feels shaky, hearing Kady say it so starkly. She wants to argue with her, but she can’t find the words. 

“Nerds.” Kady’s smiling a little. “That’s not good enough.” 

“I’m OK.” Alice feels defensive of Julia. She spent so much of the day calming down various different people. She didn’t do anything wrong. 

Kady draws her closer, her arm settling on Alice’s waist. Alice shivers at the touch. There’s a heat in her vulva, like she’s aroused. She turns her head, tucking it into Kady’s neck, and inhales the musk of a top. Kady’s hand rubs circles up her back, finally setting at the back of her neck, and she squeezes. Alice gasps: she can’t help herself. She feels small, speechless. She wants to surrender herself to Kady.

“I’m here,” Kady says. “You’re a good girl. I’ve got you.” 

Alice relaxes a little, at those words. Usually she bristles at being told she’s a good girl, but right now, that’s exactly what she wants to hear. 

“I feel...” She stops. She doesn’t know how to continue. 

Kady squeezes her again, and Alice feels small, like a kitten. She’s tiny and Kady’s a big predator, but she’s choosing to hold her tenderly, without using her teeth. She wants to be a good girl, and to have Kady keep her safe. 

“What do you need?” Kady says. 

Alice doesn’t know. She’s rocking forward, rhythmical thrusts of her hips, and there’s more heat in her groin now. It feels like she’s going to spill over. It’s not exactly – she doesn’t think she’s felt like this before, it’s almost like the rocking soothes her, or that she needs it to control the big emotions inside her, not like she wants to _fuck_ – 

Kady knee slides between Alice’s thighs. “I’ve got you,” she says. “Follow your instincts. It’ll help.” 

She rearranges them slightly, so Alice is half on top of her, and her thigh is pushed up between Alice’s legs. One hand stays on the back of Alice’s neck, but the other slides down to Alice’s pyjama pants, and her fingers dip beneath the waistline, just touching Alice’s hip. 

“Oh,” Alice begins, and she wants to say something else, but there aren’t any words. She rocks forward again, and – and now it feels good, because she’s pressing down against Kady’s thigh, and Kady tilts her leg upwards, up against Alice vulva and – oh, oh god, she’s just frotting herself here, just rubbing herself shamelessly against Kady – 

She stops moving, she’s so warm, her face hot, she’s ashamed – But Kady is talking against her neck, “Good girl, a little faster for me, yeah? Go on, you can press harder, I’ve got you –”

And it feels really good, honestly way better than Alice considered rocking against a girl’s thigh ever should feel: she’s hot, bands of warmth spreading from her groin, and she feels wet, and that porous feeling is there, she’s mingling with Kady’s heat, with Kady’s scent, and like Kady says, she’s got her, they’re together, Kady’s keeping her safe, Kady’s _so good_ at that – 

Alice hears herself moaning, little wet sounds, almost like sobs, and Kady keeps squeezing the back of her neck, and she’s small, she’s a kitten, she’s contained by Kady, she’s in Kady’s den, in Kady’s scent, and Kady wants her to let go, to take care of her – 

Her mouth opens, and she’s biting at Kady’s chin, little, toothless nips. Kady grunts, and catches her jaw. “Oh, kid,” Kady’s voice rasps, and she touches three fingers to Alice’s lip, and Alice is opening her mouth, almost choking herself on them, drawing Kady in as she bucks against her thigh. 

She comes wet and warm, and she keeps rocking, slow, wordless, because it sends waves of good feeling through her body. She’s small, and the rhythm helps, helps to keep her here, where she’s warm, and held and safe. 

Kady keeps cooing to her, little words, until her muscles seem to turn to liquid, and she melts into the bed. Her mouth goes slack, and Kady removes her fingers, a slow tug. Alice is deep in the den, where it’s quiet and soft and she doesn’t need anything. 

Then Kady kisses her, her forehead, and the junction of her jaw. “You are so good for me,” Kady’s voice is soft, husky. “You’re staying the night with me, aren’t you?” 

Alice doesn’t have to say anything. She tucks her face into Kady’s neck, and lets Kady worry about tucking them under the covers.


	24. Chapter 24

Quentin wakes up: he’s in the middle of the bed. Margo is on one side, Eliot on the other. He feels dreamy, sleepy, still trying to piece together the events of last night. Everyone in Brakebills came to the party, or that was how it felt. Eliot was _drunk_ : he remembers Eliot singing, spinning him around, laughing. Quentin wriggles his toes. He’s not entirely sure how Margo ended up in bed with them – he went to sleep before either Eliot or Margo. He remembers Eliot saying he was going to sing Quentin a lullaby, and then serenading him with ‘We Are The Champions’, accompanied by magical cellos. 

“Daddy?” Quentin asks, yawning a little as he sits up. 

Margo sits up too. Her hair is tangled from sleep, and she’s still wearing her silk blouse. “Don’t wake El,” she whispers. “I’ll look after you.” 

Quentin squirms. “I don’t need to be looked after.” 

“Why were you trying to wake Eliot, then?” 

He shrugs. He thinks the real answer is probably, ‘Because I wanted a hug’, or ‘Because I wanted to hear about last night’, or just ‘Because I wanted attention’, but he doesn’t want to admit any of those things. 

“Come here,” Margo says, and suddenly slim warm arms wrap around his neck, and his nose is pressing into the silky skin of her throat. She smells like smoke and cocktails. She tugs Quentin back with her, into the pillows, and strokes Quentin’s hair: it’s kind of nice, but it’s also unexpected. 

“How come you’re in bed with us?” he asks. 

“I was sharing El’s bed long before you were,” she says. “Sometimes a girl needs a friendly place to crash. Of course, you were hogging most of it.” 

It’s true that Eliot appears to be sleeping on the extreme edge of the mattress, while Quentin’s taking up most of the centre. 

“It’s nice that you’re here,” Quentin says. “El misses you.” 

“I’m right across the hall.” There’s a tiny edge to her voice. 

“I know, but he spends so much time... with me...” Quentin turns his head slightly, so he’s less buried in her neck. 

“Yeah. I don’t suck his cock enough: that was always going to be an issue with our relationship.” 

Quentin wriggles in the warmth. “You can talk to him while I suck his cock?” he offers. 

Margo snorts. “That’s a cute idea, but he’s no fun when he’s sweaty and incoherent.” 

They’re quiet for a moment. Quentin shifts again, looking for Lamb. She’s on Eliot’s side of the bed, pressed into the crook of his arm. Well, OK. Quentin supposes Daddy is allowed to cuddle Lamb. 

“You’re so squirmy,” Margo complains. “Can’t you keep still and cuddle?” 

Quentin tucks his head in against her, smelling her comforting dom smell: but he can’t help it, he’s wiggling again. Margo catches his hair in her hand suddenly, not so it hurts, but it does startle him. “Do you need to go pee?” she asks, her voice stern. 

Oh. Quentin realises that he does. He _really, really_ does. How did he not notice before? Why does his body do this to him? 

Margo draws up her legs to allow him to exit the bed as swiftly as possible. He skids to the toilet, making it on time, but just barely. He feels small and embarrassed as he sits there, toes wiggling on the cold tile. He should at least do this standing up, like a big boy. 

When he comes back into the room, Margo is out of bed, wearing Eliot’s silk robe. She hands him a pair of warm socks and his hoodie. “Don’t get cold,” she says. “I’m going to go about my own ablutions, and I’ll join you in the kitchen. Start making coffee.” 

Quentin does as he’s told. He can feel his body relax as he follows her instructions. 

He’s careful, measuring the coffee, heating the milk the way he knows Margo likes. When she comes in, she pets the back of his neck and says, “Good boy,” and he nuzzles into her hand without thinking about it. 

She takes a box of Cheerios from the cupboard, which Quentin is completely sure don’t belong to any of them. “Eliot would probably feed you better than this, but you’ll have to make do. Do you have meds you need to take?” 

“You’re very responsible,” Quentin says, as he takes his pill with orange juice. 

“I couldn’t do it every day.” Margo carefully adds the milk to her coffee. She pours a smaller cup for Quentin, like she doesn’t trust him with caffeine. 

“So,” she says, once they’ve eaten the cereal. “Can I dress you up?” 

* 

Quentin sinks to the floor by her bed. Somehow, he can’t imagine sitting on that white cotton expanse. She smiles at him. “You’re so easy.” 

He ducks his head. “I can... I mean. Do you want me to stand?” 

“No. I like it that you’re easy.” She strokes his head again, and then down to his neck. “We don’t all want mouthy brats, like Penny.” 

“Penny says he understands more about discipline than I ever will.” 

Margo snorts. “He wishes.” 

Quentin feels another jolt of warmth go through him. He shifts position so he’s kneeling on his heels. He remembers to check in with his body, now that he’s calm: it seems to feel pretty good too. There aren’t any urgent signals from anywhere, and the anxiety that joins him on a school day is quiet for now. 

Margo looks through her wardrobes. “You’re too big for my stuff and too small for Eliot’s. But we can work out a compromise.” She’s taking out bright fabrics: reds, golds, blues, greens. Quentin isn’t sure about any of them. 

She holds up a red shirt to him, and hums thoughtfully. He nuzzles into the next one, a blue velvet. “God, you’re so tactile. If I gave you silk you’d probably just cuddle it all day until it was creased.” 

“That’s true. I would.” 

Margo pets his cheek. “Are you wearing boxers?” 

Quentin nods. 

“Strip down to them.” 

He blinks at her. “Um...?” 

“Just so I can put some outfits on you, baby.” 

“I don’t know.” 

“About taking your clothes off, or the outfits?” 

He looks at his hands. “Both? I... I don’t look good in anything.” 

“That’s where you’re wrong,” she says. “Let Mama dress you up. You can change in the closet if it’ll make you more comfortable.” 

Quentin nibbles his fingers, sliding his pointer into his mouth. “I don’t mind getting undressed in front of you.” His voice is a little muffled. 

Margo sits on the bed, puts her hand on his shoulder, and encourages him to lean against her legs. “You’re such a sweet boy.” Her fingers are firmer than Eliot’s, tangling and smoothing his hair. He relaxes under her touch. “Such good dimples when you smile. Everyone wants to play with you.” 

He lets the finger fall out of his mouth. “Alice doesn’t.” 

“Well, she’s a special case.” She scritches his neck, and he shivers in pleasure. “You can just sit here while I work on my assignments if you prefer. We’ll wait til your Daddy comes to play dress up.” 

But Quentin wants to make her happy, and it seems like dressing him up will probably involve a lot of touching and praise. Neither of which he can resist. “What do you want me to wear?” 

He’s right it does involve a lot of touching: Margo quickly takes over the dressing process, rolling sleeves, adding belts, performing quick tuts on pants so that they tighten over his ass. As she works, her firm fingers caress his neck, his cheek, the inside of his wrists, until he’s practically quivering. His cock thickens in his boxers, but it’s not that he’s aroused, exactly: it just feels so good to get so much attention from someone as beautiful and confident as Margo. He can’t stop looking at the curve of her neck, or the softness of her breasts. When she likes something, she smiles, and he feels so happy he wants to wriggle like a puppy, because her smile is _so beautiful_ and he made it happen. 

She finally settles on a silk shirt, in forest green, that she says Eliot used to wear. Quentin’s not sure why so many of Eliot’s clothes are in Margo’s closet, but he doesn’t ask questions. Clothes aren’t his department. He’s stopped feeling weird about being partially dressed beside her, and he enjoys the feeling of the silk against his thighs. 

“I don’t think any of the pants are going to fit you properly. Put your own back on, and I’ll see what I can do.” 

She definitely does something to tighten up his pants: Quentin shifts his weight anxiously, feeling them cling not only around his butt, but around his thighs and calves too. “Why do they have to be so tight?” 

“So we can see what you look like, of course.” Margo pats his ass. “You’re sort of deceptively stocky: you look broader than you actually are. I think it’s the clothes you wear. I’m going for a forest nymph type thing – brown-eyed and virginal.” 

Quentin’s not sure he understands any of that. “I’m not a virgin, jeez,” he objects. 

Margo snorts. “Oh, everyone in this house knows, trust me.” She puts her hand under his chin, tilting his head from side to side. “Hmm. We need to do something about your hair too. Sit at my vanity.” 

Quentin doesn’t like looking at himself in the mirror, so it’s difficult, when Margo places him in front of it. Her make-up is carefully arranged in front of it, and there’s a pleasant smell of perfume in the air. She brushes his hair back, gathering it between her fingers. “Would you let me put make-up on you?” 

Honestly, he’d let her do whatever she asked. But he bites his lip. “I’d look stupid. I’m not like you or Eliot.” 

“You wouldn’t look stupid if I did it.” Margo brushes his hair. Her deft fingers begin pinning it away from his face. “Think how pretty your red lips would be around Eliot’s cock. He’d probably come in his pants.” 

He looks at his mouth in the mirror. His lips look too big to him. He’s always touching his mouth, putting his fingers into it. He loves sucking on things: for years, it seemed like the most common thing anyone said to him was, “Get your hand away from your mouth, Quentin.” He doesn’t know if he wants to draw attention to it. 

“I’ll take it right off if you don’t like it,” Margo wheedles. 

Of course he lets her. He shuts his eyes as she works, and finds he enjoys it. The soft brushes against his face, the close smell of Margo’s body, her attention on him. He makes a little soft sound in his throat as she smooths something over his eyebrows, and she laughs. “Such a needy boy.” 

He swallows. “Margo? Can I ask you something?” 

“Yes, sweetie?” 

It’s easy to ask when he can’t see her looking at him. Her dom smell calms his nerves. “How can I get Eliot to fuck me?”

Her fingers pause against his cheek. Then resume. “He hasn’t?” 

“He keeps talking about it, but he doesn’t do it. He’s so slow and tender and gentle.” Quentin’s voice comes out very petulant. 

“How could he. ‘Tender and gentle’. What a dick.” Margo takes a step back. He keeps his eyes shut. “Eliot hasn’t had a relationship like this before. He mostly slept around with other tops last year, and they were assholes to him. Always asking if he was sure he was a top because he’s so gentle. He’s never been with someone he really cared about. Except for me, of course.” She pauses, as though she’s thinking. “You know you’re very special, don’t you?” 

Quentin sighs. Thinks of baking with Eliot, getting flour on his face and Eliot brushing it off. Of waking with his head on Eliot’s thigh, soothed by the sweet musk of Eliot’s cock. Of Eliot washing his face for him. All the times he’s looked at Eliot and seen Eliot looking back and thought, _What did I do to deserve this?_

“But it’s been so long,” Quentin complains. “I need it.” 

“Being fucked up the ass has its appeal,” Margo says. “Aesthetically. Emotionally. Physically. Biologically. But, honey, if he’s sticking his fingers up there, you’re basically all the way, and he can give you a better orgasm with his Magician’s fingers than his giant cock. Don’t invest so much in it. And talk to him about what you want.” 

She’s right. He knows she’s right. He reaches to play with his hair while he thinks, and she slaps his hand away. 

“Don’t ruin my hard work. Look at yourself, and think about my wise words.” 

“Yes, Margo.” 

In the mirror, he sees, first, that his eyes look larger. Large and dark, lashes long. Margo has braided his hair back at the temples, and done something to his face so his skin looks smoother, the shadows under his eyes gone. But it’s subtle: he thought he’d look painted, in drag, bigger than himself, but actually he recognises the reflection. He looks like himself, but healthier than usual. A little prettier. Like he could play an ingénue in an old movie. 

“What do you think?” 

“I’m... You did a good job, Margo.” 

“I know I did a good job. Do you like it?” 

Quentin swivels on the stool. Looks up at her and flutters his lashes. “Yeah, I think I like it.” 

There’s a crash outside, and then the door swings open. Quentin feels the rush of happiness and excitement he experiences every time he sees Eliot. He’s in his robe, his hair fluffy and unkempt. He sits on the end of Margo’s bed, rubbing his face. Eyes bloodshot. “Oh Jesus. Oh, my god. Last night.” 

Margo laughs. “I know, sweetie. Did you do the spell?” 

“No. Where did you guys go? Why don’t you feel like death?” Eliot’s voice has a whine in it that Quentin hasn’t heard before. 

Margo stands beside him, performing a quick tut. “Because Quentin didn’t take anything, and I know my limits.” She smooths her hand over his forehead. “There. That should be better.” 

He blinks slowly, moving his head very slightly as though it might fall off. “Yeah. It does. Thanks, Bambi.” 

He takes her hand, and kisses it. 

“I’ve been babysitting,” Margo says. “So you could sleep.” 

“Poor Q.” Eliot squints at Quentin, and his mouth opens slightly. “Wait. What did you do to my baby?” 

Quentin’s surprised by how crushed he feels. “Don’t you like it?” 

“Come here,” Eliot says. Quentin stands in front of him, and Eliot, sitting on the bed, takes Quentin’s chin in his hand and carefully turns it from side to side. “Wow. I’m surprised you didn’t put him in a cocktail dress and pearls.” 

“Are you picturing him sucking your cock?” Margo says. 

“No, I’ve got a more active imagination.” Eliot runs his thumb over Quentin’s ear, exposed by the new hairstyle. “What if he was eating you out, on his knees, looking up at you with those big eyes?” 

Now that Eliot’s here, Quentin’s more aroused, as though Eliot’s very presence gets his cock interested. He turns his head, nudging Eliot’s hand, and licks the tip of Eliot’s finger. 

Margo laughs. “That sounds nice, too. What’s in it for you?” 

“Maybe I’ll eat him out at the same time.” 

“He wants you to fuck him.” Margo winks very slightly at Quentin. 

Eliot withdraws his finger. “What have you been saying to Bambi?” 

Quentin swallows. “Just that I want you, Daddy.” 

Eliot smiles. Rubs his eyes, which remain bloodshot, despite the spell. “Oh, come here,” he says, and puts his arms around Quentin’s waist, tugging him onto his lap. He nuzzles at Quentin’s neck, long fingers sliding the shirt out of Quentin’s pants, so he can tickle Quentin’s waist. Quentin squeaks in response, trying to scramble away from Eliot’s hands, but the fingers work their way up to his ribs, deft and strong, finding the most ticklish spots. 

“You’re such a baby,” Eliot is saying into Quentin’s neck. “You’re so needy. I should make you wait a week before I let you come for being so demanding.” 

He’s still tickling. Quentin can hardly speak. He buries his face in Eliot’s shoulder, and Eliot catches his hair, tugging painfully, forcing Quentin to expose his neck. Eliot fastens his mouth to Quentin’s shoulder, and for a second Quentin thinks he’s going to bite. Instead he blows a raspberry. It’s so unexpected that Quentin laughs despite himself. 

“That’s your punishment,” he says, rocking Quentin back and forth. “Baby. I decide what you get.” 

“You are absolutely ruining all my hard work,” Margo snaps. “I was trying to be sensual.” 

“You made him adorable. Anyway, I’m still on a come-down. There may be some failure to rise to the occasion,” Eliot says, pressing his nose against Quentin’s. “What will you be demanding next, hmm?” 

“I’m not demanding anything unreasonable,” Quentin objects. “But I understand that you had a big night, and you’re very fragile now. Poor Daddy, it’s so hard to be old.” 

Eliot pinches the soft skin below Quentin’s ribs: gently, but enough to make him squirm. “You’ve made him cheeky, Margo. He was never a brat before.” 

“Good, you need more bratting in your life,” Margo says. “If you’re not going to let me watch you fuck, I demand a proper breakfast instead. And then we study.” 

“Oh, Margo,” Eliot says. “Study, really? I just want to watch a movie and snuggle.” 

“The deal is if we party, we study the next day. No excuse for them to kick any of us out,” Margo says. 

Eliot sighs against the top of Quentin’s head. “Never make a deal with Bambi.” 

“Too late,” Quentin says as Eliot pushes him off his lap.


	25. Chapter 25

Quentin, the little brat, wriggles happily when Margo suggests spanking him. If anyone else suggested it, Eliot knows he’d turn into the kind of possessive dom he actually hates, but it’s different when it’s Margo. Having her touch Quentin is almost the same as touching him himself.

The agreement is that Margo will spank him once for every tut from Popper’s that he gets right. 

“Why don’t you spank me for the ones I get wrong?” Quentin asks, with that little eager wriggle he does when he wants something. “That would be more traditional, wouldn’t it?” 

Margo tweaks his hair. “Then you wouldn’t have any reason to get them right, would you?” 

Quentin bites his lip. “I like being good,” he says, glancing at Eliot for confirmation. 

“Then you’ll get a lot of spanks, won’t you?” Eliot says. He’s feeling better than he was this morning: less like the top of his head is going to come off. He’s still dressed in his robe, though he made bacon and eggs for all three of them, and he took a lot of pictures of Quentin’s make-up before Quentin ruined it by eating. 

“I keep fucking up.” Lately, Quentin teeters on the edge of an anxiety attack whenever he looks at his assignments. It’s been getting worse: he’s so nervous about studying that he can’t even begin. His poor, highly-strung boy. 

“Don’t think about how you might fuck up,” Margo says. She takes his hands, which he’d been fluttering nervously, and squeezes them. “Think about how you want to make Mama and Daddy proud.” 

They’re in Margo’s room, Quentin’s notes spread out over the carpet. He’s sitting at their feet, while Eliot tries to read a history of Czech magic, and Margo gives Quentin suggestions. Quentin tilts his head up to look at them again, his eyes meeting Eliot’s. Like always, Eliot wants to give in, tell Quentin he doesn’t have to work, and distract him with sex. But he knows that isn’t what his boy needs. “Go on, do the first one,” Eliot encourages. 

Quentin’s not _bad_ at magic, that’s the thing that frustrates Eliot. Once he gets the tuts right, his casting is consistent, and his spells are strong. But his concentration is terrible, and even though Eliot has seen him doing calculus in order to calm down, he still can’t seem to get his head around the theory. He should be better at this than Eliot: he’s better qualified, he’s a nerd like Margo... Eliot doesn’t think Quentin’s problems have anything to do with innate ability – it’s all about how Brakebills is run. How every professor sets them up to fail, and rewards cheating and back-stabbing. They take one look at Quentin and decide that a sub like him needs to be weeded out as quickly as possible. 

Margo is a much better teacher than anyone on the Brakebills staff. Eliot watches as she coaxes and cajoles Quentin through the assignment he’s been set, and he even rewards her with a dazzling smile, affectionately nuzzling his head against her shoulder. 

Eliot doesn’t feel anything but fond as he watches Margo petting Quentin’s hair. She leans over the edge of the bed to whisper something in his ear, and Quentin shivers, his toes wiggling. 

“I should kick you out,” Margo says to Eliot. “Have you got any work done?”

Eliot’s – Well, Eliot’s counting on his strength at theory, and his consistency of spellwork, because he is not going to pass one single essay question. And that’s – fine. He always gets through schoolwork; Margo doesn’t understand what it’s like to scrape by, or ace something via coffee and all-nighters... 

_“Yes,”_ Eliot says, putting down the stupid Czech history and kicking it under Margo’s bed. 

Margo rolls her eyes. “Great example for Quentin.” 

“I don’t think I need Eliot’s example in order to study, thanks,” Quentin puts in. 

“Well, you do have me,” Margo agrees. “What do you want to do with him, El?” 

That’s a – a big question. There are a lot of things Eliot wants to do with Quentin at any given moment, ranging from making him hot chocolate and wrapping him in a blanket, to yanking his crumpled clothes off and sucking his little cock so hard he forgets how to talk. 

Eliot’s thinking about fucking Quentin, working his cock into Quentin’s ass. Of course he is. But he’s – nervous about it, about how Quentin will take his cock, whether he’ll actually enjoy it, how to make it good for him. And he wants to do it just the two of them because – because he loves Bambi, but he’s not sure he can deal with her making jokes the first time he does it. But. What does Quentin want? Right now? 

The answer’s easy: Quentin wants to know he’s not in control. He wants Daddy to take care of him. He wants to be small and _good_ and be utterly contained by Eliot. And Eliot can definitely help him out with that. 

He sprawls into a more comfortable position on the bed, resting his head against Bambi’s leg. She pets his hair vaguely. Quentin’s still on the floor, looking up at them. Mouth slightly open. Eliot touches his finger to the seam of Quentin’s lips, and Quentin takes his fingers into his mouth as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. 

“Well, first, obviously, Q deserves his spanks. He’s been a good boy.” Eliot loves the idea of seeing Quentin on the bed, squirming, as Margo spanks his ass with her slim, hard hand; and at the same time he’s made nervous by it. He knows that Quentin is perfectly capable of appreciating a spanking, and that he won’t break, but he also – he can’t help that part of him sees Q as a precious fragile baby that he wants to protect. He always felt that way about Q, but it’s been especially powerful since he told Eliot about his last dom. 

Margo nods. “Of course. Anything else on the list?” 

“Then he’s going to lie on his back on the bed, and I’m going to get on top of him and put his dick in my ass, nice and slow. I want him to feel me all around him, smell me, know that I – that I’ve got him. That he’s mine.” 

“Sounds very intense.” Margo touches the tip of Eliot’s nose. “Very thorough. What do you think, little Q?” 

Quentin licks in between Eliot’s fingers before he slides them out of his mouth. The pop as they leave his lips is wet and obscene. He’s smiling a little, looking up at both of them, open and trusting. “I like it, Daddy.” 

Margo is not unaffected by Quentin calling him Daddy. Eliot sees her swallow. He’s heard her tell some herbalist kids to call her ‘daddy’ too, and the only sub she fucked more than twice last year was a psychic with enormous eyes who had ‘Mommy kink’ written all over her. 

So he’s not surprised when she winds her fingers in Quentin’s hair, and gives his head a little tug. He looks up at her, eyes dark. He exudes a scent of excited submissive: musky and sweet at the same time. Eliot breathes it in and feels his cock, which seemed so unlikely to ever get excited earlier in the day, thicken perceptibly. God, his boy is so good. 

“Clothes off, baby boy. On your stomach, on the bed,” Margo says. 

Quentin nods. He stands slowly, and his fingers fumble on his button-down, as though he’s forgotten how to undo them. Eliot takes over for him, and Quentin stands, hands limp, looking up at Eliot. As though he’s helpless. Eliot runs his fingers over Quentin’s neck, feels his Adam’s apple bob. Quentin’s lips part, and Eliot kisses him, feeling how pliant Quentin is, how quickly he yields to Eliot’s touch... 

To feel Quentin yield, and yield. God, it’s such a drug. 

He hears Margo: “Chop, chop. I’ve been waiting all day to spank him.” 

“Is that what you want?” Eliot asks, cupping Quentin’s cheek. “Do you want Margo to spank you?”

Quentin nods, pressing his body again Eliot’s. He’s naked now: Eliot’s hand travels over his skin, the softness of his lower back, the dip of his ass. 

“In words, baby. Sit on the bed.” Eliot lets go of him. 

Quentin’s flushing as he sits down. He’s looking up at them: face naked with longing and need. Being asked to speak is a challenge. 

Margo and Eliot wait. Silent. Eager, too. Margo, not known for her patience, folds her arms. Eliot touches her, asking for her quiet. 

“I...” Quentin ducks his head. “I’d like to uh... Lie on the bed, please. And for. For Margo to h-hit me. I want to feel...” He sighs, biting his lip. 

“Go on,” Margo says. 

“To feel like everything’s going away, because all that matters is the way Margo touches me. Hurts me. And Daddy – And Eliot. I w-want him to...” Quentin breaks off again, and then speaks in a rush. “I want to put my dick in him. Like he said.” 

At those words, Eliot feels so – so good he can hardly stand it. Happy, proud: hearing Quentin say what he wants. Knowing what his baby needs. And being able to give it to him. “Oh, little Q,” he says, his voice sounding much too breathy. 

“Good boy.” Margo’s there, touching his hair, guiding him down, onto the bed, onto his stomach.

Her hands are firm and careful. Eliot sits beside him on the bed, hand going to the back of Q’s neck, cooing to him. 

Eliot trusts Margo: he trusts her to listen to Quentin, to respond to how he reacts to her, and to give him what he needs. He’s seen Margo top lots of different people, with all kinds of thresholds, and he’s jerked off to it more times than he can count. But his heart flutters as he watches her rub Quentin’s ass, as her hands smooth his thighs. 

Eliot’s bracing himself when she raises her hand, but Quentin can’t see her, and his mouth opens, a slight, “Oh,” of surprise, not pain, when she hits him. 

“Good boy,” she says. “Count for me, sweetie.” 

Eliot’s been spanked by Margo before, once or twice last year, when he felt strung-out and anxious. When he needed to be touched, needed to feel the edges of himself. He knows her style. Margo mocks him, and tells him she’d kick him out of her room – and, possibly, her life – if she couldn’t relieve her tensions on his ass. 

She’s different with Quentin. Her voice is gentle, encouraging. But – as Quentin counts eight, Eliot realises – she’s hitting Quentin much harder than she’s ever hit Eliot. Her palm rings against his ass. His skin is reddening perceptibly. Margo is bracing herself – 

And Quentin, mouth open, panting a little, is taking it like it’s little more than a tender caress. Rising to her touch. When he counts eleven, Eliot holds up his hand, and Margo sits back on her heels. He encourages Quentin to look up: Quentin’s eyes are dark, dreamy, the tension that often wrinkles his forehead gone. 

“Hey baby. How are you doing?” 

Quentin nods, as though he only half comprehends the question. 

“Do you want more?” Eliot asks. 

“Y-yeah.” Quentin’s face gets a little less dazed. “Yes, please, Margo, more. Harder.” 

Margo gives his ass a squeeze. “Ask me again.” 

Eliot thinks Quentin blushes, but it’s hard to tell: Quentin’s face is already flushed. “Please hit me harder, Margo.” 

“Of course, sweetie.” Margo’s voice is cheerful, and doesn’t betray the intimacy of the moment. 

Eliot takes Quentin’s head in his lap, and feels his tension gradually melt away as he hears his boy groan and sigh and melt under Margo’s hand. 

Margo looks – beautiful. She’s taken off her shirt, somewhere along the way, and her red bra brings out her hair and eyes. She’s smiling, all her attention on Quentin, and her whole body responds to the sounds Quentin makes, shivering at the same moment he does. She also looks – thrilled to be doing this with Quentin. Like hitting boys is exactly what she was made for, like it’s her favourite past time. 

Meanwhile, Quentin rocks back into her touch. Eliot wonders how he’d react to a flogger or a crop, whether he wants a sharp sting of pain or a slow burn. What the best ways to undo him would be. He’ll ask Bambi’s advice, after this. 

Quentin’s voice is husky. At some point, he’s lost count, though he did his best to keep up with Margo. He murmurs, little syllables, meaningless and soft. Eliot’s cock is hard against his thigh, pressing up against his pyjama pants, touching Quentin’s cheek. He’s got his fingers in Quentin’s hair, somewhere between soothing and encouraging. Time seems to melt: has Eliot been here for seconds, minutes? 

At last Quentin sniffles, wet-eyed, and she pauses, rubbing his red ass. “Enough for today,” Margo says. 

Quentin turns his head, deeper into Eliot’s lap, and sucks Eliot’s cock through the thin fabric of his pyjama pants. It’s hot, uncertain, breathy, and Eliot feels his cock jump, his hips aching to press into Quentin’s mouth. 

“Now it’s time for your treat,” Margo says. “You want to put your dick in Daddy, huh?” 

But Quentin seems to be past words, sucking mindlessly at Eliot’s cock, and when Eliot tries to ease him away, he latches onto Eliot’s fingers instead, murmuring. “We need to change positions, baby,” Eliot says, coaxing. 

Quentin sobs, one small, raw sound, when Eliot takes his fingers out of his mouth, and it makes Eliot’s stomach clench. But Quentin is listening to them: he rolls onto his back, wincing a little as he draws his knees towards his chest. His cock is hard, red, wet. Eliot presses his palm against it, feels the pulse of heat. 

He glances at Margo. She’s taken her pants off, and has her hand on the outside of her red lingerie, thumb touching her clit. “Well?” she says, expectant. 

Eliot wants – He wants Quentin to feel surrounded by him. To feel as though his Daddy is on top of him, on every side of him, so he doesn’t smell, taste or see anything that isn’t Eliot. 

“Are you ready, darling?” Eliot asks. 

Quentin’s lips part. He nods, and whispers, “Daddy... Fuck me,” and it’s maybe the most cliched four syllables in the world, but Eliot doesn’t care. His cock is so hard he feels like he’s seeing stars. 

Margo passes him lube, and Eliot’s fumbling, smoothing it over Quentin’s little cock – which is already wet, and small enough that Eliot doesn’t think it’ll be a problem, and then he’s climbing onto Quentin, straddling his hips, and he feels the blunt head of Quentin’s cock against his hole. Quentin’s not pressing up into him, he’s not doing anything other than staring at Eliot, and Eliot leans his forehead against Quentin’s, and feels their breath moving as one, and then – 

He’s guiding himself down, down onto Quentin’s cock, and they’re sliding into each other, body meeting body. He can feel Quentin’s dick throb inside of him, and Eliot’s mouth opens, his breath raw in his throat. Eliot’s legs are spread wide, but it feels like it’s Quentin’s who is opening for him, as Eliot bears down on him, swallows him up. 

And he _does_ feel like he’s all around Quentin, like he’s containing Quentin, and Quentin is all his. He hears Margo’s voice, but not what she’s saying. His dick jerks against his stomach. 

“Do you want me to get you off, idiot?” is what Margo’s saying, and he’s aware of the acute pressure in his balls, that he’s barely controlling himself as it is. 

“N-not yet,” he says, but it’s not going to be long, anyway – he’d like this moment to draw out, for each touch to last forever, but he can feel Quentin’s breath, frantic, and the muscles in his own back and thighs, fluttering. 

“You can come whenever you need to, baby,” he says to Quentin, and Quentin’s eyes meet his, pupils so blown they’re almost black, and he dips his head to lick Quentin’s lips and chin, tasting salt. He can smell Quentin: the musky heat of submissiveness, a drug, better than anything, and he’s ready to weep with it too, the tension within him, the sweet, sweet smell of Quentin, and how much he needs him, wants him – He feels vulnerable, vulnerable in a way he’s always thought a top shouldn’t feel, because he needs Quentin so much, wants him, they’re locked together and he still wants – more – 

“God,” Margo says, and he feels her hand brushing his hair out of his face, and it helps, he feels like she’s tugging him back inside himself. “You two are such losers.” 

Quentin makes a sound, incomprehensible, and his hips stutter against Eliot’s ass, and then he’s coming, whimpering, shivering. His face is wet with tears, but Eliot doesn’t want to move, and Quentin’s clinging to him. Margo presses her thumb to Quentin’s mouth – oh clever Margo – Quentin latches on to it, sucking her through the orgasm. 

Eliot ends up jerking himself off, because Margo cuddles Quentin, letting him loll against her chest and suck her fingers, and it feels good – right – that she should look after him, and Eliot should fuck his hand. He comes fast and much more than even he anticipated, despite knowing how ridiculously aroused he was. The spunk stains his belly, his hand, Quentin’s chest. Then Quentin sits up, and reaches for Eliot’s fingers instead of Margo’s, and sucks the semen off them like he can’t get enough of it. 

He curls up against Quentin and Margo, feeling his breath returning to normal. He’s exhausted. He could die now, and it would be fine. He could fall into blackness. He feels so much – contentment. Love. Love – that’s definitely the word, which is, in its own way, terrifying. 

“How are you, baby boy?” Margo is saying, touching Quentin’s cheek and doing the aftercare Eliot should be doing. 

Quentin nuzzles into both of them, looking for as much physical contact as they can possibly give them. “Good,” he says at last. Eliot is grateful to hear his voice because – because he’d been beginning to be afraid he’d pushed Quentin further than he could go. Quentin yawns through his nose. “Sleepy. Thirsty. I want Lamb.” 

Margo kicks Eliot, lightly, in the ribs. “You heard him, Daddy. Go get him Lamb, and water for both of us. I want a squeeze of lemon in mine.” 

Eliot staggers to his feet. Does what he’s told.


	26. Chapter 26

Alice follows the dusty staircase into the attic above the library. Here, the air smells strongly of glue and sun-bleached wood, but in the winter, despite the stuttering warming spells around every student’s room, it’s still cold. Julia’s nook is at the end of the long corridor. Alice can smell the tea she’s brewing, on the hotplate she’s set up. Alice peeks in: Julia is sitting at her desk, wrapped in two blankets, her hands working through the motions of a spell, without actually casting. 

Alice checks Julia’s warming spell, which extends around the bed and desk. She can detect the gaps in it: Julia’s miscalculated, and the heat leeches outwards as much as in. It only takes Alice a second to fix it. 

It doesn’t get warm immediately, but Julia’s Magician’s instinct makes her aware of the spellwork. “What did you do?” she asks, giving Alice a smile. 

As Alice explains, Julia pours them both tea, and they sit cross-legged on the bed, wrapping the blankets around their shoulders. Alice’s tiredness washes over her as she sits there: recently, a feeling of intense fatigue comes and goes within her, like a tide. She wants to get into bed and pull the covers up over her head forever. After Charlie died someone told her grief was exhausting, but at the time, she thought that was bullshit. Energy crackled through her bones: she couldn’t rest. 

It’s different now. 

“What’s up?” Julia asks, wrapping her hands around her mug. Alice resents her a tiny bit for knowing that Alice is feeling bad, without Alice having to say anything. Alice’s feelings are her own business. 

She sighs, enjoying the warmth of the tea, but not the taste. It’s bitter, even though Julia stirred in a spoonful of honey for her. She wants to talk to Julia, but she also wishes she could settle down in this bed, and fall asleep smelling Julia’s skin, while Julia works at her desk and doesn’t ask her any questions. Julia would probably let her. 

Another option is to suggest they study. That’s what the Alice of a few months ago would have done. This Alice holds her cup close, and says, “I’m jealous of Quentin, sometimes.” 

Julia doesn’t seem surprised, but which is also disappointing. Alice thought she was hiding her jealousy pretty well, and that people would think that she only felt superior to Quentin, not jealous. Instead, Julia nods, as though she knows, and gestures to Alice to go on speaking. 

“He...” Alice pauses. “He gets so much _attention_. From you and from Eliot, and from everyone. And it’s so confusing, because I want to be – to be independent, and not like him, but at the same time I want – I want people to care about me, like they care about him.” 

Julia touches Alice’s cheek, and Alice finds herself leaning into the caress. “Do you want to cuddle?” Julia asks. 

A month ago, Alice would have hated to be asked that. Now, she’s surprised to find she’s glad. All these changes inside her are uncomfortable. It’s Julia’s fault. 

For a moment, Alice resists, and then she nods. Julia puts their mugs on one side, and arranges them against the pillows at the head of the bed. Alice settles her head onto Julia’s chest. Like this, she feels smaller than Julia, and contained by her arms. She’s shy of lying like this, as though she exposes some part of herself by being held, and she also longs for it, daydreams about it. 

Julia kisses the top of her head. 

“I’ve known Quentin for a really long time.” Julia is stating the obvious, Alice thinks, and she gets sick of hearing how long Quentin and Julia have known each other. It’s not _Alice’s_ fault that she didn’t form intense relationships in her early youth. She had Charlie. “And it’s... We don’t really call ourselves anything other than best friends. I’m not his top, even though sometimes people think I am. I can’t imagine my life without him in it. But I think it’s... Good for us to find other people to be with as well. I want a sub. I want relationships with people who understand different parts of me, and who I can discover different parts of myself. It can’t just be me and Quentin forever.” 

Julia sounds so sensible and emotionally healthy. Alice chews her lip, hard enough to taste copper. “I think if I had a friendship with someone the way you have with Quentin... I’d just want it to be us forever. People are so hard.”

“Do you just want it to be me and you?” Julia asks. There’s an edge of worry in her voice. 

“No.” Alice looks up at her. “It’s like you said. Being with you and Kady is helping me find other parts of myself.” She pauses, looking into Julia’s hazel eyes. She feels shy. “I... I slept with Kady. After that fight she and Margo had.” 

“She told me,” Julia says. “I was proud of you, sweetheart. For knowing you needed something, and asking for it. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.” 

“Aren’t doms supposed to be jealous of stuff like that?” Alice didn’t know. Relationships are mysterious, and she hasn’t read any of the right books, and she’s sure no one really behaves like they do in movies. 

“Not me.” Julia shrugs. “Not with Kady.” 

Alice hears Julia’s heartbeat under her cheek. Students are talking in the corridor. She’s so tired: but she doesn’t feel sleepy. She’s heavy, there’s so much going on inside her, and she doesn’t know what to do with it all. “I’m scared.” She speaks so softly she thinks maybe Julia won’t hear her. 

“Of what?” 

“I have so many feelings. I don’t even know what they are. And there are too many, and I don’t like it, and I...” Alice swallows. Her throat is raw. “I don’t know. I want it all to go away.” 

Julia rests her chin against the top of Alice’s head. “We’re going through a lot of changes, aren’t we? You’ve had a lot to deal with, precious girl. Of course it’s hard. I think we.... We just need to be gentle with each other. Figure it out in our own time.” 

That sounds very aspirational. “Brakebills isn’t a gentle place.” 

“All the more reason we should go easy on each other. And ourselves.” 

“How are you so good at this?” Alice asks. “Shouldn’t you be more fucked up?” 

Julia laughs. She’s stroking the back of Alice’s neck now, gentle and soft, like it doesn’t mean anything, but the feeling is going straight to Alice’s vulva. “I think I am. It’s just... I think watching Quentin – and my dad – go through everything... It’s helped me, too. It’s shown me what’s important.” Very softly, she adds, “I just want to be a good dom.” 

“I’m pretty sure you’re the best dom,” Alice says. Her voice comes out much more serious than she intends it to. She swallows. “I’ll send you one of those cards from the grocery story. ‘To the World’s Best Dom’.” 

Julia doesn’t laugh this time. “I’d treasure it,” she says. 

Alice feels herself blushing, like she’s revealed too much. She ducks her head, burying herself further in Julia’s boobs. Julia doesn’t seem to mind, and they feel nice under her cheek, soft and comforting. She can understand why Quentin seems to want to bury himself in Eliot or Julia: how safe it feels to be surrounded by the scent of a dom you trust. How the raw parts of you are soothed. 

She could fall asleep like this. Instead, she says, “Julia?” 

“Mm?” 

“I want to kneel for you.” 

Julia raises herself up onto her elbows. Alice sits up too. She can feel that she’s blushing and ducks her head. They’ve kissed, and she’s learnt what Julia’s vulva tastes like, and Julia has made her come and pulled her hair a bit, but they haven’t gone beyond shared orgasms and the gentlest of instructions. Alice wants more. She’s scared of wanting more, but she feels the need, deep inside, an ache, and it’s not going away. 

“Are you sure? You’ve... I’ve never been sure if that’s what you want.” 

Alice bites her lip. “That might be because you’re used to Quentin? And he’s always getting on his knees. I think with most people, you have to at least build up to it.” 

“That’s probably true.” Julia smiles. “It’s good we’re talking about this. Is there anything else you’d like?” 

“I think about you a lot.” Alice rubs her face. “This is really hard, Julia.” 

“I know. I’d like you to tell me though, I think it would help.” 

“You have to tell me something you want, too. I told you something.” 

Julia quirks an eyebrow. She reaches for her mug of cooling tea, and takes a sip. “I imagine tying you up. It’s not something I’ve done, often, but I’ve been reading about the best kinds of rope and knots, and some magical aids, because I can’t stop thinking about you with your wrists and ankles bound. You’d be such a wriggler. I’d like to see you squirm, and complain, but not be able to get free, no matter what I did.” 

Alice’s breath is coming faster. “What would you do?” 

“Tease you. Touch you, but not in the ways you want, or not enough. So you want more of me but you can’t get it. I want you to be only able to think about me, and wanting more of me. I want to do that to you.” 

“OK.” Alice’s voice comes out breathy. “OK, yes, you should do that.” 

“Now it’s your turn.” Julia’s very calm. “Tell me something you think about.” 

Alice tugs at her own hair. “You being, um. More rough with me? I think... I know I’d like you to... hit me. Spank me. With your hands a-and maybe a crop?” God. Why does anyone ever talk about anything? She’s going to get under the covers and not come out. 

“Oh, Alice.” Julia puts down her mug; swings her hand forward to grab the back of Alice’s neck. She pulls their mouths together: hungry, urgent. Alice presses up against her, mouth opening, thinking _yes, yes, yes_. Her mind is confused but her body _longs_ for this. 

She tries to bite at Julia’s mouth, but Julia doesn’t let her. She tugs at Alice’s lips with her teeth, her tongue sliding deep into Alice’s mouth, until Alice can only moan, deep in her throat. Julia’s tugging her hair, pulling Alice’s head back, so Alice has to expose her throat, as Julia bends over her, nipping her chin, her neck, her collarbones. 

“Fuck,” Alice murmurs. “Fuck, Julia.” 

Julia’s hands settle on either side of Alice’s face. She’s panting. “God, you’re beautiful.” 

Alice sucks Julia’s lower lip into her mouth. Julia makes a sound: a keen, a whine. “You should do both those things to me,” Alice says. “Tie me up, and spank me.” 

“Yes,” Julia says. “Soon, very soon.” She leans her forehead on Alice’s, her fingers wrapped in Alice’s hair. “For now, I’m going to fuck you.” 

Alice is nodding already, not sure whether to pull her shirt off first, or spread her legs. She doesn’t have to make the decision: Julia is there, expertly undoing her bra, her thigh sliding between Alice’s legs. Alice sinks back into the mattress, Julia on top of her.


	27. Chapter 27

The date of the trials looms closer and closer. Eliot tries to forget, and then remembers, with a sinking dread in his gut. He wakes next to Quentin, in the powdery scent of calm submissive, and strokes his soft furred skin and tangled hair, and thinks, _No, not you._

Eliot _hated_ Brakebills South. Of course he did. It was designed to make students fall apart. The cold. The itchy woollen uniforms. Always being watched. Never speaking. The constant abuse from Myakovsky: demeaning remarks, sexual innuendos, being slapped across the face when he made mistakes. 

He woke feeling like he was in a freezing barn in Indiana. He wasn’t himself any more: he was sixteen-year-old Eliot, cold and humiliated. He crept across the corridor every night, curled up in Margo’s bed. Hid his face in her hair. Rank smells of days without washing. Shivered despite the warmth of her body. 

He can’t imagine Quentin there. Can’t imagine how he’ll cope with the demands of that place. Or with the trials beforehand, with being wedged apart from Eliot and Margo, and being forced to outwit other students. Eliot also can’t imagine how he’ll cope without Q. 

Margo agreed with him from the start. “He doesn’t have a single quality that would help him pass. He’s a sweet boy, a good boy. He’s not like us.” 

Eliot usually has a solid strategy of ignoring his problems, but this is different. This is _Quentin’s_ problem, even if he doesn’t know about it yet. “Will you talk to Julia with me?” he asks Margo as he’s mixing her a post-class cocktail. 

“Aw, does she scare you?” Margo asks. 

“A little,” Eliot admits honestly. He genuinely likes Julia, but she’s intense: disciplined, demanding, focused. He’s worried about the sort of damage she could do to him if he ever did anything to hurt Quentin. On the other hand, it’s good to know Quentin has someone like Julia in his corner. 

Though Julia’s not supposed to live at the Cottage, she’s usually around it somewhere. She and Alice stay up all night, talking and whispering together, and though Eliot’s seen them kiss, and seen Alice rest her head in Julia’s lap, the relationship is at a much slower tempo than his and Quentin’s. But Julia’s also at the Cottage to spend time with Quentin, in the nest of stuffed animals he keeps on the bed he rarely sleeps in, or practising magic with Kady while flirting with her. Much like Eliot, the nexus of Julia’s life is at the Cottage. She probably has a better social life than he does, which is a bit galling. 

They check all her usual spots, but they end up finding her with Quentin, in Eliot’s room, in Eliot’s bed. They’re going through one of the vicious booklets of exam questions Fogg likes to give out to freak out first years. Quentin is looking sleepy, leaning into Julia’s shoulder, Lamb under one arm. 

“Knock knock,” Margo says. “Isn’t this Eliot’s room?” 

“And Quentin’s.” Julia shrugs. “If you sleep in a place every night, doesn’t it become your room by default?” 

“We can go,” Quentin says. 

“No, baby.” Eliot comes over to kiss his forehead. “You stay. We’re going to steal Julia for a minute.” 

She puts the exam paper down. “You are?” 

They end up in Margo’s room. Eliot offers Julia a cocktail, too, but she turns it down. She perches on the stool at Margo’s dresser. Her blazer is creased, her hair mussed, but she still looks in control. Why is Eliot’s life so full of terrifying women? Alice is scary, too, even though she’s a sub, and Eliot never wants to cross Kady. Not to mention Margo. 

“So...” Eliot says, and then stops. He’s not usually at a loss for words and he doesn’t like it. 

“We could get expelled for what we’re going to tell you,” Margo says. “But we decided we needed to talk to you.” 

“If you’re planning to tell me anything about Fogg’s personal life, please don’t. I do not want to know.” Julia’s smiling, but there’s an edge to her voice. 

“Oh, God, no.” Margo shuts her eyes for a second. “No. We need to tell you about what happens at your first trials, and at Brakebills South.” 

Instead of looking perplexed, Julia’s face lights up. “I saw references to trials for first years in a couple of different places, but never anything concrete. Why are you telling me?” 

“Because we don’t think Quentin should do them.” Eliot’s surprised by just how sombre he sounds. He’s thinking of Quentin in the snow, white-faced and fearful. Quentin thinking he has Eliot’s support, always, and finding Eliot hasn’t told him the truth about this place. 

Brakebills. Pitting them against each other. It’s so fucked up. 

He and Margo explain the situation to Julia. She listens, gaze intense as a hawk’s. He can see she’s itching to take notes. “Why do you think he won’t cope?” she says. 

“Um. Have you met him?” Margo snaps. 

Julia bites her lip. “He’s been through a lot. He’s tenacious. He’s struggling with some of the classes, but he loves magic. He won’t let himself be defeated.” 

“But, Julia, how screwed up do you think he’ll be at the end of it? If you think it’s going to be OK, then we’re not communicating how bad it is,” Eliot says. “I nearly lost my mind.” 

Julia fixes him with a stare. _Well, you’re pretty fucked up,_ it seems to say. _I’m going to be fine._

“Why are you telling me,” Julia asks, “And not Quentin?” 

“We wanted your opinion,” Margo says. “You’ve known him longest. And we didn’t... We want to have a plan, before we stress him out about it.” 

“What kind of a plan?” Julia sits a little straighter. Eliot can’t understand how she looks so composed. 

“A way to get him out of it,” Eliot says.

Julia stands up. “You can’t make decisions for him, Eliot. He might do what you say, but making his choices for him is not something a responsible dom does. You know that. That’s basic.” 

Eliot looks at her. Her angular, tense face. He feels his stomach sink. Is that what he was doing? Yes, it was. He and Margo were both trying to make Quentin’s choices for him. But it felt like the right thing. They can’t let him go through with this. 

He wouldn’t even be able to take Lamb to Brakebills South. Somehow, that seems worse than any other privation. 

“You should talk to him,” Julia says. Her voice is gentler now. “Tell him what you told me.” 

Margo rubs her forehead. “I just want to get out of here,” she says suddenly. “They’ll try to erase our knowledge of magic if we leave, but we can outsmart them. I’m sick of it. They don’t get to dictate what I do.” 

“Bambi?” says Eliot, surprised. “But you always study so hard.” 

“So I’ll be ready,” Margo says. “You think you’re the only one who hates it? I’m always planning an exit strategy. I’ll tell Quentin, when we talk to him.” 

Julia’s tapping her fingers on the edge of the desk. Thoughtful. “He’s always wanted to run away. This is the only place he’s wanted to stay.” 

**

Quentin’s asleep when they return to Eliot’s room. Snoring softly through his mouth. He hasn’t been sleeping well. They begin to back out, but Quentin startles awake, blinking at them. “Am I in trouble?” he asks, wiping drool from the corner of his mouth. 

Margo glances at Julia, as though Quentin is just further proving her point. Eliot kisses his forehead. “Why would you think you’re in trouble?” 

“You all look so serious. And I have anxiety.” Quentin rubs his hair back from his face. He’ll need a shower soon: or a bath. Eliot thinks that putting some expansion spells on the tub and getting into warm water with him sounds like an excellent plan for the evening.

“You’re definitely not in trouble,” Julia reassures him. She sits at the foot of the bed. “Eliot and Margo were just telling me about the trials.” 

Quentin looks at them questioningly. He looks so small and so tired: he’s been having nightmares about his dad. Eliot can barely remember the other students who washed out during the trials. They weren’t important. But, Quentin... 

He swallows. His throat is hot. 

Margo is explaining it all. Eliot watches Quentin’s face. His eyes, getting wider, look for Julia’s face. 

“We want to get you out of it,” Eliot says. He’s surprised by how rough his voice is. “It’s... You don’t have to. It’s bullshit.” 

Quentin bites his lip. “You don’t think I can do it?” 

“No,” Margo says, before Eliot can get his thoughts together. “It’s hell. And you’re barely surviving as it is.” 

Eliot can feel the wave of Quentin’s distress crash over him. His instinct is to gather Quentin into his arms, rock him. He wants to bite him, to mark his skin, to remind Quentin that he belongs to Eliot, and he won’t let anything bad happen to him. He has to grip the duvet to restrain himself. 

“Oh,” Quentin says, very small. Staring at his blanket. 

“I think you can,” Julia says. Her voice is quiet and firm. “You’ve come this far, Q. You can do anything you want.” 

Quentin doesn’t look convinced by this, either. Margo is looking at Julia with supreme exasperation and disbelief, a look Eliot is familiar with from any time a student or teacher says something particularly dumb in class, but Julia is too busy watching Quentin to notice. 

“If I... If I don’t go, I have to leave Brakebills,” Quentin’s voice is unsteady “Right?”

“And that might be the best thing,” Margo says. “You’re a Magician. I’m not arguing with that. But this place is hurting you. And I’m sick of it. We can learn what we need away from here.” 

“I thought you said Hedges were pathetic,” Julia interjects. 

Margo sighs. “We won’t be Hedges. We won’t be pathetic.” 

“I just got here.” Quentin draws his knees into his chest. He’s looking really upset now. “I’m not sick of it. I don’t... I don’t want to go.” 

Eliot puts his arms around him. Quentin is stiff, unyielding. “I didn’t want it to be a surprise,” Eliot says, into Quentin’s hair. “I couldn’t keep lying to you. I want to protect you. It’s what I do. But I... Julia’s right. It’s your choice. We’re with you.” 

“I know I’m not a very good Magician.” Quentin’s playing with Lamb, running his thumb over her ear. 

“You’re not terrible,” Margo says. “Your focus isn’t great. You’re not in a very supportive learning environment.” 

Quentin glances at her. “But I want to keep trying. I’ve... Wanted to give up on things so many times. I’ve always struggled to commit to anything because I feel like it’s all temporary. Like I’m just... waiting for a way out.” 

“But you kept on trying,” Julia says. 

“Yeah. I think that’s all I know how to do. Try.” 

Margo looks between Q and Julia. “OK. Well, irrational determination it is, then. I’m still planning an out, if we need it, no matter what.” 

There’s a pause. Julia opens her mouth to speak. Then Quentin reaches out to Margo, and, squirming out of Eliot’s hold, loops his arms around Margo’s waist instead. “Thanks,” he says. 

Margo looks down at him, like she’s not sure how he got there. “Don’t mention it.”


	28. Chapter 28

Quentin cries in the shower. He’s pretty sure Eliot wanted to take a bath with him – and what the fuck does he think he’s doing, passing on that opportunity? – so he’d ducked into the shower while Eliot was downstairs mixing drinks. He needs to be alone with his tears. 

Because he can’t do it. He can’t be a Magician. He’s not good at anything. 

He’s not even a good submissive. If he were, Eliot wouldn’t be so worried about him. He needs and needs and he never gives anything back. All he ever does is make people want to protect him. 

And they’re so kind to him. They’re doing such a good job of protecting him. He’s never felt loved like this before. Why can’t he be grateful, instead of upset? 

He feels like there’s another person he could be. A parallel version of himself, who is good and competent and sensible. If he could just push himself hard enough, could he break through some invisible barrier and become that person? He imagines himself as a good, hard-working submissive like his Dad, courteous and careful and self-possessed. Why can’t he be that person? Why is goodness so unattainable? 

It’s hard, knowing what Eliot and Margo think of him. That they think he needs so much help and protection. That he’s not capable of doing anything. 

He doesn’t disagree. That’s part of the problem. He hasn’t even been able to think about Brakebills South: his brain touches on it and slides off again. The idea of something that even scares _Margo_ is too much to take. 

The storm of sobs passes through him, and, like always, he’s left feeling raw and tired. He swallows the wet steam, rubbing his face. He wishes crying made him feel _better_. People say, ‘Let it out,’ as though crying is supposed to release a poison, but it doesn’t. 

He steps out of the shower. Someone’s put a spell on the mirror so it never steams up, which Quentin hates because he doesn’t need to see his hollow face or his perplexed expression. He should shave, but there are too many steps, and he doesn’t want to look at a razor right now, even one of the little plastic ones that could never do any real damage. 

Not that he’s ever done anything with a razor. But – it’s a temptation. There are temptations everywhere. 

He means to get dressed, or at least get into his pyjamas, but he ends up on his own bed, wrapped in the towel. There’s a nest of stuffed animals in here: his sloth and gorilla, an elephant, some fish. He nestles in among them, smelling their familiar scents and nuzzling into soft textures. His wet hair sticks to his face and neck. 

He thinks of all the things he needs to do: dry off; get dressed; study; eat dinner. The more he thinks about it, the harder it is to move. 

He doesn’t know how much time passes. 

Eliot sits at the end of his bed. The room has darkened since he’s been lying here, and the towel is damp and uncomfortable against his skin. Eliot takes one of his bare feet in his hand, and squeezes it gently. “Hey.” 

Quentin hopes his feet aren’t gross. He can’t remember when he last cut his toenails. But it’s a thought that comes from far away, like it belongs to another person. 

The silence stretches. “Hey,” Quentin croaks. His throat feels raw. 

“Do you want your sweatpants? I think they’re in my room.” 

“Um.” Quentin’s mouth feels sticky, like he just ate butterscotch. “You’re probably right about Brakebills South, El. I’m... I don’t know if I can do it.” 

Eliot’s quiet for a moment. Still holding Quentin’s foot. “You know, we spoke to Julia before we spoke to you. I was going to find a way to... get you out of it. And present it to you as a _fait accompli._ And she told me that wasn’t fair to you. That you have to make your own decisions. And she was right. Really annoying, but right.” 

A flash of Julia, age thirteen, her hair in French braids, yelling at a kid ten inches taller than her because he called Quentin a ‘snivelling subtard’. Telling him that Quentin could do whatever he wanted. It’s sweet that she still believes that. 

“Julia always thinks she can solve my problems.” Quentin plays with the paw of his sloth, which Julia gave to him when he was in hospital the first time. “It’s...” He sighs, thinking about it. “She thinks if she helps me enough, and pushes me enough, I can do everything a top can do. I think it’s... one of the reasons we could never work as a couple.” 

There’s a pause. Quentin is glad he can’t see Eliot’s face. “And what do you think?” 

“I’m not a top.” Quentin shivers in the damp towel. “I’m not even a very... competent sub. I’m not like my dad, or Penny, or Alice. I’m... I get depressed and anxious and inert. I want to do everything that other people can do, but I don’t think I’m like other people.” He swallows. “I wish someone would tell me not to try so hard all of the time. I wish I could take a break.” 

Eliot draws in a breath. “Q,” he says. “Baby.” And then, “You’ve got goosebumps. It physically pains me to see you uncomfortable. Can I please get you some clothes and we can talk about this when you’re warm?” 

Quentin laughs a little, he’s so surprised. He rolls onto his back. “You know, you’re kind of proving my point.” 

He’s looking up at Eliot for the first time since they began talking. Eliot is focused on him, as though Quentin is the most important thing in the world. 

“But yeah, some pants would be good,” Quentin agrees. 

Eliot finds socks and pants, and Quentin pulls on a hoodie. “Just a second,” Eliot says, and comes back with a hairbrush. Quentin relaxes a little as Eliot pulls it through his hair: he can’t help melting back against Eliot’s chest, and Eliot hums under his breath, carefully parting Quentin’s hair. 

“Half the time I don’t remember to brush it,” Quentin says. 

“It’s cute that you say that as though everyone can’t tell immediately.” 

Eliot fluffs up Quentin’s pillows fussily, playing for time, before sitting on the bed. He puts a couple of the stuffed animals on his lap to make more room. Quentin sits beside him, and then lets himself sink into Eliot’s side. 

“I failed another test today,” Quentin admits.

“The herbalism one?” 

“No. Psychic.” 

“Oh.” Eliot rubs the back of Quentin’s neck. “Well, that stuff is kind of intuitive. Pass or fail.” 

They’re quiet. Quentin can feel his blood pounding in his ears: a baseline of anxiety, even when he’s snuggling with Eliot. 

“Brakebills sets out to break us,” Eliot says. “It rewards people who shine under pressure, like Margo. I’m struggling: I spent all of first year drinking too much and fucking tops I didn’t like, and now I don’t have the right foundations. I’m bad at languages. I’ve never been good at reading a lot. I’m scraping by, Q. We like to think we’re better than the Hedges, but I don’t know if this place is much better than squatting with them in Queens.” His fingers rest on Quentin’s neck. “It pains me to say this: I am better than everyone. I know I am. But I don’t know if I’m my best self here.” 

Quentin looks up at him. “So you want to leave?” 

“I don’t know. What I’m saying is that I don’t think there’s anything wrong with needing help. With floundering here. The magical world isn’t set up for people like you and me, and maybe we shouldn’t kill ourselves trying to work within it. Maybe we need to create something else.” 

Eliot’s eyes are dark and intense. Quentin finds himself smiling. “That’s very inspiring, Eliot.” 

“Well.” Eliot sighs. “I wouldn’t be this earnest with anyone but you.” 

Their hands link together against Eliot’s chest. The Cottage is quiet, and Quentin can hear Eliot’s heart echoing his own in his ears. “Can I be very earnest too?” Quentin asks. 

“Of course.” 

Quentin swallows around the heat in his throat. The drumming in his head. “I love you, you know.” 

Eliot meets his eyes, and then looks away, as though looking at him is too much. “I know. I feel the same.” A pause. “I mean... I love you, too.” 

Quentin tilts his head up, and their lips meet seamlessly in a kiss. And then again, and again: open, wet, hungry. He feels like he’s starving for Eliot, and it’s a good feeling: a heat in his blood, under his skin, a heat that depression has taken from him so many times. But now, despite everything, it’s there. He _wants_ Eliot, and his body presses against Eliot’s, rolling easily into his lap. A stuffed elephant falls onto the floor. Kissing Eliot is so good, better than he ever knew kissing could be: the electric heat of it, spanning from mouth to groin, the tug of Eliot’s teeth, the glide of Eliot’s lips. 

He’s fisting his hands in Eliot’s clothes, a moan beginning behind his ribs, his mind suddenly blank, or white with need, with wanting more, with wanting to be touched everywhere. 

It turns out getting dressed was pointless. Eliot’s stripping his clothes off him again, as though any moment that their skin isn’t touching is offensive to him. Quentin’s legs hook up over Eliot’s hips, his cock pressing against Eliot’s belly. He nips at Eliot’s chin, his neck, his chest, longing for more skin. 

He feels like he’s tipped over, into a place of heat and tenderness, where, for a moment, everything has melted away. It’s hard to get to that place, even with Eliot. But he can relax here, in this moment, like sitting in the sunshine or gliding along a swimming pool. 

He leans his forehead against Eliot’s. “Will you fuck me, El?” 

Eliot smiles.“What, do you think that declarations of love are the magic words?” 

His eyes are on Quentin’s: something burns deep in them. 

Quentin swallows. “I just really, really want you to.” 

Eliot’s hand is on his hip, squeezing. Quentin’s cock pressing against Eliot’s stomach. He knows there are other ways to fuck, other ways to feel joined, but right now, he doesn’t care about that. He yearns for this, for Eliot’s cock in him, the burn of it. It might be old-fashioned or problematic to care so much about being fucked, but he does. He does. 

Eliot’s voice is low, rough. “Promise you’ll stop me if it hurts.” 

He kisses Eliot, messy, needy. “You won’t hurt me.” 

Eliot leans back, looking down at him. “We’re doing this together, baby. I’m... I love being your Daddy, but this time I’m not your top. I need you to guide me, too.” 

He sounds vulnerable: maybe Quentin has been fucked lots of times, but it’s different with Eliot. Eliot isn’t like other tops, he’s softer, more open, and that’s part of what makes Quentin feel so safe. He touches Eliot’s cheek. “We’ll be careful. I promise.” 

Eliot kisses him again: tongue sliding into Quentin’s mouth, and Quentin feels a shiver of arousal, a heat that makes him moan. “I’m going to eat you out,” Eliot says, “So I can’t kiss you again for a while.” 

Quentin’s bendy, he always has been, his body good at making itself small, tucking into corners. But now the same bendiness allows him to be open, to pull his legs up, to spread himself out for Eliot. Eliot’s hands settle on his ass cheeks, opening them, and Quentin feels the heat of Eliot’s breath on his hole. He’s squirming already. _God. Fuck._

Eliot’s tongue: the wetness. The pressure of it, the tickle, the tug of mouth: Quentin is so sensitive here. He’s pushing up, up to meet Eliot. Eliot told him he wanted feedback, and though Eliot’s rimmed him before, and Quentin’s moans must tell their own story, he tries to give it. “More. More.” 

Eliot’s fingers dig into his skin, and it’s so good, the grounding pressure and the flicking tongue. 

“Yes, Quentin,” Eliot says, voice somehow both teasing and tender. “Yes, baby.” 

Eliot doesn’t do any of the spells Quentin has learnt about over the last few months: he doesn’t make Quentin wet for him, or open him up. Instead he’s slow, careful, thorough. If Margo were here, she’d give him full marks for hard work, and maybe encourage him to be more imaginative. 

Not that Quentin is complaining. He’s whining on the bed, legs open, feeling the need deep in his guts, the need for Eliot, the need for more, always more, while Eliot is working him open, so tenderly, so fucking slowly, with his tongue and his fingers, working lube into Quentin’s ass, whispering to him, careful and grounding and so, so tantalising. 

“Are you enjoying this?” Quentin asks, finally, panting. “How much I want you?” 

He’s looking up at Eliot through his hair. Eliot’s eyes are heavy-lidded, he’s flushed, his cock huge and hard. Eliot swallows. “It’s not unflattering.” 

“Asshole,” Quentin murmurs. “Asshole. I can’t believe I’m in love with you.” 

Eliot laughs. “Yes, you can,” he says, and works a third finger into Quentin’s ass, and Quentin feels it as a shot of heat up his spine, and he throws back his head. Wordless. 

And then, finally. Finally. Eliot pulls Quentin by his hips, tugging him so he lines up with Eliot’s cock. There’s a roughness to this gesture, a desperation, and it makes Quentin moan, his cock glistening with pre-come. He wants: so much. Then the press of Eliot’s cock against him, the first, unsteady thrust. 

There’s a burn, but. “You’re not that big,” Quentin says, his voice unsteady. “I can take it. You flatter yourself.” 

Eliot laughs: a shout of laughter, like it’s startled out of him. He slaps Quentin’s thigh. “I forget what a brat you are.” 

His hands are on Quentin’s calves, and then somehow Quentin’s wrapping his legs around Eliot’s torso, and he reaches for Eliot, trying to pull Eliot on top of him. Bring him closer, closer, closer. 

Eliot’s cock: the heat of it, the size. He feels it jerk inside him, and he remembers his cock being inside Eliot, the velvet pressure. Remembering that sends a loop of arousal through him, imagining how he feels to Eliot, and how Eliot felt to him. He feels raw, hot all over. Mouth dry, eager, desperate for more. He says it again, as he’s been saying it so often, “More, El. More.” 

And Eliot slides further into him, opening him. Quentin pulls them together, wrapping his arms around Eliot’s shoulders. A hot pulse from his prostate, a burst of sensation that he can barely contain. His mouths opens in a whimper. He touches his face to Eliot’s. 

“I can’t kiss you,” Eliot says. Quentin grabs Eliot’s hand, unbalancing Eliot, so more of his weight rests on Quentin. “I don’t want to squash you.” 

“Stop worrying.” Quentin needs to suck those fingers into his mouth, he needs them. He needs to taste Eliot, he needs something in his mouth – Two fingers, three, pulling them deep into his mouth, lips stretching, the press of them against his palate. He can take anything today, he needs everything. 

Eliot begins to thrust, careful, and then deeper, slow and deep, so Quentin is being opened, opened, opened in slow motion. Quentin can’t speak, but he feels the words deep in his throat, below the press of Eliot’s fingers: _Oh, Eliot. El. Eliot. You are so gentle and so tender, but you make me more desperate than anyone has – You expect so much of me, you need so much, and I’ll give it to you, I’ll give it to you, everything, baby, everything_ – A strange clarity comes deep within subspace. The control he’s given up is returned to him, a power all its own: Eliot is his, just as much as he is Eliot’s, and Eliot is trusting him, and he needs to hold that trust, to keep Eliot safe... 

His muscles clench around Eliot. His mouth is sore and dry, but he can’t stop licking at Eliot’s fingers, sucking them – He wishes he could suck Eliot’s cock, and have Eliot fuck him at the same time; he wants to tug all the parts of Eliot inside himself. God, he’s so – he needs so much. Is sex always going to be like this? Always? As though nothing exists except for the two of them? Every goddamn blowjob feeling like the end of the world? 

His cock throbs against his stomach, his groin tight. Eliot is speaking, incoherent, his fingers fucking in and out of Quentin’s mouth, his dick sliding in and out of Quentin’s ass, and Quentin feels his body giving, giving. All he’s ever wanted is to yield like this. 

A tear is tracking down his cheek. 

Eliot’s fingers jerk out of his mouth, and his voice is careful. “Quentin? Honey? Are you OK?” 

“Don’t stop. Don’t fucking stop.” He trembles with emotion, with sobs he won’t let out. 

Eliot rests their foreheads together. “I want to jerk you off,” he says, “But I need my hand for that.” 

Quentin’s aware of his predicament: that he needs at least one arm for balance, or he can’t keep thrusting. But it seems unfair: Quentin wants Eliot’s fingers and Eliot to jerk him off, and Eliot to fuck him, and why is that so hard? He can’t make up his mind, and Eliot makes it for him, and once his hand is around Quentin’s cock, he can’t think about anything else, Jesus, it feels good... 

And he’s moaning now, high, frantic sounds, sounds he’d try to swallow down if he was with someone else. But no one else has ever pushed him like this, made him so desperate to fall over the edge, and desperate to stay here, teetering forever. 

Eliot kisses his forehead, his cheek, their faces resting together, and Quentin honestly doesn’t care that El had his face in his ass, he presses his mouth up against Eliot’s, and Eliot lets him, but he doesn’t stick his tongue in Quentin’s mouth, the fucker... 

Eliot’s hand rubs his cock, almost too hard, thumb flicking over the head, and Quentin’s eyes keep shutting, because it’s so much, and then he wants to see Eliot again and he opens them... His legs ache, and he’s spreading them wider and wider, and Eliot’s saying something about coming, but Quentin doesn’t hear him. He only knows the feeling, the heat inside of him, Eliot’s thrusting faster and faster, the rub of cock to prostate an almost unbearable pulse through his whole body.

Quentin is still hard when Eliot comes, and he’s kind of amazed that he’s lasted so long. Eliot’s panting against his neck, biting Quentin’s shoulder, making rough, raw sounds as he shudders and shudders. Quentin clenches around Eliot’s cock, wanting to keep him there more than anything, unable to bear the idea of him pulling out. Eliot’s stays where he is, bracketing Quentin with his body. He’s quivering. Quentin can see the sweat on Eliot’s arms, on his thighs, and he tastes it as he licks Eliot’s chin. 

He wraps his own hand around Eliot’s, over his cock, and fucks both of their hands. His dick is wet with pre-come. The friction is almost more than Quentin can bear, the bands of heat and need growing tighter and tighter – 

Then he’s giving himself over to it, jerking faster and faster, until it feels so good he can’t imagine ever stopping. He buries his face in Eliot’s shoulder and gives in to the white blankness of pleasure. 

Smell of skin, smell of top pervading the room, like a lion’s musk filling a den. Warm sheets, heat of their bodies. Quentin’s usually the one who cries, but he feels Eliot’s face against his jaw, wet, and Eliot snuffling very softly. 

“Sweetheart,” Quentin says, and rolls onto his side, aware his skin is sticky, his muscles are twitching. Here, Eliot can press his face into Quentin’s chest, and Quentin strokes his hair, his cheek, his neck. 

“I just...” Eliot swallows, wetly. “I...” 

Quentin nuzzles into Eliot’s hair, smelling his sweat. He feels safe, held in the scent of Eliot. He rubs his thumb over Eliot’s jaw. “It’s a lot, isn’t it?” 

“Jesus.” Eliot sniffs. “I’m being such a sub. I’m not usually...” 

Quentin giggles. “That’s rude, El. You’re not supposed to say that just because you’re having a feeling.” 

“I know. I’m trying to be butch.” 

“It’s OK, daddy. I think maybe people know you’re not.” 

Quentin shuts his eyes as Eliot caresses his face, smoothing back his hair. He feels quivery all over, like all of his nerves are pressed right up against the surface. He doesn’t care how sticky he is. He wants them to stay here forever, in the cage of one another’s limbs. 

He’s also aware that he’s thirsty. That, most likely, he’s going to have to piss soon. It’s very unfair. 

“I’ve never...” A pause, while Eliot breathes. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.” 

“I’m not worried.” Quentin twirls Eliot’s curls around his fingers, something Eliot hardly ever lets him do. “I’ve got you and Margo and Julia looking out for me.” 

Quentin realises he’s lying on his gorilla stuffie. Poor stuffed animals: they’ve witnessed way too many things. This is why it’s better to keep the fucking for Eliot’s bed. 

The afternoon feels like it happened a very long time ago. Quentin’s surprised to feel his stomach growl. “Is this about Brakebills South?” he asks. 

“I don’t know. Maybe. Kind of. I don’t want you to feel as though you’re not capable of doing things. But I’m also afraid.” 

“Me too.” Quentin nuzzles his shoulder. “We’ll work it out.” 

“Will we?” 

“I don’t know.” 

They’re silent. Quentin’s stomach growls again, and Eliot finally smiles. “Should I feed you or clean you off first?” 

Quentin sighs. “Can we eat tacos in the bath?” 

“Absolutely not.”


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger Warning:** At the beginning of this chapter, Quentin has some suicidal thoughts. He doesn't do anything, but he's dealing with intense emotions and a panic attack, and he thinks about suicide and past suicide attempts. If you want to skip this, it should be safe to read from the first starred (**) break.

Quentin kept saying he could handle it. That he wasn’t going to fall apart. 

That’s the worst part. 

No, there’s no worst part. It’s always all completely humiliating. If he just tried hard enough, couldn’t he stop it from happening? Couldn’t he keep it together? Eliot and Margo tried so hard to prep him for the trails. Julia was right there, nodding encouragement. 

The first trial has even gone well. And the second. He and Alice and Penny had worked together. It was all fine. 

Until now. 

He doesn’t feel safe. That’s – that’s not a big deal. A Magician doesn’t need to feel safe. 

But he – he’s going to have to leave his little room in the Cottage. He’ll leave Eliot’s bed, the routines they’ve been finding, and he’ll – he’ll be somewhere out there, in the dark. He knows he’s loved, that he’s cared for, and yet he feels abandoned. Completely lost. 

So of course he’s doing what any sensible adult would do, and crying outside. He’s afraid to tell anyone what he’s feeling, and unable to pretend he’s OK. 

Last night, he’d been dragged from the warm, Eliot-scented cocoon of his bed, and ended up in front of all the other students. Exposed: in his pyjamas. Feeling very, very small. Knowing he’s going to fail at Brakebills South. He’s going to fail now, too: it doesn’t matter that he passed the first tests. He’s not good enough. 

They’re going to erase his memories. He’ll be alone: he won’t even remember Eliot. He won’t remember magic. Of course he couldn’t cope with magic school. He’s Quentin, he can’t ever cope with anything. Things are always too much. And it’s not fair on Margo or Eliot, or Julia, to drag them down with him. Eliot shouldn’t leave for him. It’s not fair. 

He – he needs to tell Fogg what he’s doing, get him to erase his memory, so Eliot doesn’t have to deal with it. Eliot will be sad, but – he’ll be better off. 

The bad thoughts are coming back, like the medication, and all the affection and support, just dulled them for a few precious months. It’s not just Eliot who’ll be better off. The world doesn’t need him, not the magical one and not the human one. He can’t even comfort his dad. If he left, Eliot and Julia and all the people who know him would have bright, beautiful lives. The world, without Quentin, would be so much better. 

He’s outside the Cottage now. He doesn’t remember how he got here. Light shines through the windows. People are partying. He hears laughter. A world of joy, which doesn’t need him. In which he only causes pain. 

He’s crying. He doesn’t want to leave magic. He remembers the spell he did with Alice last week, how their hands cupped together and they made light fly from their fingertips, and then turned the light into beautiful shapes: boats, violins, horses, kestrels. He thinks of Eliot’s gravity spell, how he’s weightless in Eliot’s arms, and precious. This should sustain him: make him happy. Instead, he’s thinking of all the opportunities he’s had, and how he’s wasted them all. 

He’s _scared_. He’s a coward, Penny’s right. He’s so scared of being alone out here. Images of all the times he’s hurt himself flash through his mind: all the blood and vomit and alcohol. Attempting to tie knots. Writing letters. So many letters. He’s so scared; he feels sick with fear. And it doesn’t make sense, because how can he be so scared of himself? 

He took a medication when he was seventeen that reduced his submissive hormones. The psychiatrist said it was a last resort. It made everything foggy and black. He couldn’t eat anything. Everyone looked far away: Julia, his dad. He didn’t care about anything. He didn’t care enough to die, and so, in a way, he was safe. Without Eliot, he thinks he’d want that drug again. Maybe he should be on that drug. He needs too much. 

Before he knows what’s happening he’s on his knees. Kneeling outside of the Cottage, head down, trying to draw breath and finding nothing. He’d been told what to do when he feels like this. He’s practised for this. Organising his thoughts, reminding himself that he’s not going to drown. But nothing’s working. Just his breath and this bleakness, this vast fierce loneliness... 

He doesn’t know how much time passes. He’s cold. He hears distant laughter. He wants Eliot, he wants to be held. He’s aware that he’s uncomfortable, but he can’t move. He thinks he hears his name, someone calling for him, but he’s stuck here. Inert. The shadows lengthen and darken, and he’s afraid. The whole world is pressing against his skin, it’s like he’s always naked and for a while he had Eliot to cover him, but he has to stop asking for help – 

At some point, he wets his pants. He feels it, and it makes him sob harder. He wasn’t aware it was going to happen, he just knew his body was shivering, and that his chest burnt with pain. Then the wetness: hot piss spilling out of him, around his thighs and ass, to add to his humiliation, his discomfort. It feels inevitable. 

“...Quentin?” 

It’s Alice. He can see the blonde of her hair, very bright in the darkening evening, as she kneels in front of him. 

“What’s happened?” Alice asks. 

He wants to answer, but he can’t make the words. His throat is constricted. He can’t even cry. 

She touches his cheek, and that makes him realise how cold he is. Her touch is like flame. Her voice is careful: “I’m going to get someone.” 

He wants to tell her not to: that he doesn’t deserve anyone. He should be left alone. 

** 

Eliot concentrates to keep his hands from shaking. He manages to perform the gravity spell. Once Quentin is light enough to carry easily, he lifts him under his knees, bridal-style: for a moment he’s completely limp, and then he puts one arm around Eliot’s neck. Otherwise, he doesn’t move. His head is tucked down into his chest. His breath flutters, uneven, and he’s wet. Eliot is whispering to him, telling him that he’s going to be OK. He’s not sure what he’s saying, and he feels more like he’s trying to soothe himself than Quentin. 

His baby, his precious boy. Eliot feels sick. How can he have let this happen? Quentin is cold right through. In the warm cottage, he begins to shiver all over. 

Julia and Margo follow him upstairs. Eliot sets Quentin on the bed, and performs the now-familiar tuts that dry Quentin’s clothes. 

“Do you want a bath?” he asks. Quentin stays where he was put. His mouth opens. 

Julia moves first, finding Lamb between the pillows and pushing her into Quentin’s hands. He ducks his head into Lamb’s fleece, and Julia strokes his hair. Margo leans against the door, watching them, her arms folded. 

“What does he need?” Eliot asks Julia. He should know, but he doesn’t. His chest is tight. 

She looks at him, shaking her head. 

“A drink?” Margo suggests. 

Eliot wants a drink: suddenly, more than anything. Something to steady him. But, because he wants it, he doesn’t ask for it. He doesn’t deserve comfort when he allowed this to happen to Quentin. Instead, he sits beside Quentin. Touching Quentin usually helps, but he feels uncertain, like Quentin is made of ice. He dries a tear from Quentin’s cheek. Quentin turns his head very slightly and latches on to Eliot’s finger, sucking his pointer deep into the heat of his mouth. 

“OK,” Eliot whispers. He leans his forehead against Quentin’s. His chest hurts. “Whatever you need, baby.” 

He rubs his arms up and down Quentin, aware again of how cold he is. Julia passes them a blanket, and Eliot tucks it around both of them, trying to share his warmth with Quentin. 

“We can’t let him go to Brakebills South,” Margo says. 

“He wanted to go,” Julia counters, but she doesn’t sound very sure. She wraps her arms around Quentin from the other side, sharing her heat with both of them. 

“That place is more fucked up than this one. It nearly killed Eliot,” Margo says. Which is true, but ouch. “We should leave Brakebills. Now. Tonight.” 

“Are you sure?” Julia’s chewing her lip. “You need to discuss it, think about your options.” 

She still thinks the world is a reasonable place. It’s kind of cute. “What fucking options are there?” Eliot says. Quentin is beginning to thaw out, and Eliot pulls him closer. He settles his head on Eliot’s shoulder, still sucking Eliot’s finger. He smells acrid: the fear-scent of a submissive. It makes Eliot desperate to make everything better, and hopeless to know what to do. But at least he’s holding him. That helps. 

“None,” Margo says. Glaring. 

“I want to go,” Eliot says. He’s been planning it with Bambi. Kady’s helped them to prep, discussing her hedge connections. They have contingency plans. He couldn’t have done it without Bambi, and it had been an idle fantasy before he met Quentin, and then it had become more and more pressing. He didn’t need a fucking _degree_ to do magic. He’d never needed a degree. And this place _was_ wearing him down. 

Quentin’s fear-scent is driving him crazy, making him want to run. He wants to burn all his bridges. He just wants his baby to be _safe._ “I want to go now, Margo.” 

“Brakebills has been getting too small for me for years,” Margo says. “I can make us a portal. I’ve got six different ways to blur our trail.” 

“Quentin, baby...” Eliot begins. Quentin’s pressed against him. His eyes move, looking up at Eliot. His complete silence frightens Eliot. “But we can’t do anything yet. He’s... He might be in shock.” 

“And we need to ask his opinion,” Julia says. “I still think this is crazy. Quentin needs sleep and security. Not to run away from everything.” 

“Security is exactly what we won’t get if we stay here. You know that, Julia,” Margo says. 

Julia is silent. Then she says, “You still need to talk to him.” 

Quentin lets Eliot’s fingers drop from his mouth with a wet pop. “This is an intense reaction to a panic attack.” His voice is rusty, but the words are his own. “It’s worse than the time Mom said panic attacks were proof that all subs are inherently manipulative and made me go to cowboy camp.” 

There’s a lot to unpack there. They don’t have time. Instead, Eliot kisses his forehead. “Hey. You’re talking.” 

“I think so?” Quentin swallows. “El. I... I’m sorry.” 

“Why are you sorry, baby?” 

Quentin shivers. His head droops. “I was so scared. I couldn’t do it. I just don’t want to leave you.” 

Eliot can’t imagine leaving him either. His pheromones are an overdrive, filling him with protective urges. He can’t stop himself from pulling Quentin even closer, rocking him. Kissing him: his forehead, his cheek. “Then you won’t. You won’t leave. You won’t.” 

“Good.” Margo opens the door. “That’s decided. You guys have an hour to cry, or whatever. Julia, I assume you’re not coming? Get Kady, I need you both to help me.” 

**

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Quentin is curled in a lump on the bed, holding his knees. He alternates between rocking himself and sucking his fingers. Meanwhile, Eliot has been packing. It’s haphazard, and he hates that he’s going to leave behind vests and scarves and make-up and a hundred other beautiful things he spent so long gathering together. 

“I was going to ask you that too,” Eliot says. He sits down at the edge of the bed: the fear-scent isn’t quite so intense, but he still feels uneasy. 

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to leave because of me.” Quentin chews his lip. “I – I don’t know if I’m going to be able to make it worthwhile for you.” 

Eliot sighs. It hurts to hear how little Quentin thinks of himself. “I don’t need you to do anything, baby. I’m glad I don’t have to worry about you out there in the cold.” 

“Do you know what Margo’s planning?” 

“We’re going to a safe house.” Thank god for Bambi: Eliot could never have figured out any of this on his own. “It belongs to a hedge friend of Kady’s. Hedges and Magicians trade spells to be allowed to hide there.” 

Quentin nods. He’s folding in on himself again. Eliot remembers how Quentin talked about letting people do what they liked to him, and suddenly he can see that. Quentin, in this state, looks like he wouldn’t be able to say no to anything, and it scares Eliot. He hopes he’s doing the right thing. 

“Baby, what do you want me to pack of yours?” 

He looks up, eyes a little spacey. “Lamb?” 

“You’re holding Lamb,” Eliot reminds him. “What else?” 

In the end, Eliot packs all of Quentin’s stuffed toys, some of his novels, and a selection of clothes. Clothes honestly seem like the most replaceable thing Quentin owns: he can easily acquire a new selection of poorly fitting t-shirts. 

“Are we ready? Done with hugging and crying?” Margo is back, flanked by Kady, Penny, Alice and Julia. 

“I don’t think we’re done with them. But we’re ready to go,” Eliot says. 

Julia rushes up to Quentin. Her arms loop around him. “Any time you need me,” she says against the top of his head. 

“Thanks, Jules.” 

She rocks him a little. “I’m going to miss you.” 

Margo is tapping her foot impatiently. Quentin whispers something to Julia, and she snorts a laugh. Then she lets go, and grips Eliot’s hand. “Take care of him or I will literally end you,” she says, her voice falling into a deep dom register that Eliot’s never heard before. 

He leans down and kisses her forehead, because he’s proud of her, and he trusts her. He hopes she doesn’t think he’s being patronising. “Come visit.” 

“OK, are we ready?” Kady looks equally impatient. “You’re going to go through three portals: two should confuse the Brakebills tracing spells, but three is definitely better. You’ll have to get outside the wards to do it, of course, so let’s start walking. Julia and Alice are going to cause a distraction here: something big and flashy and stupid, so no one is looking at us.” She pauses. “Jesus, Eliot, you’re on the run. How many bags did you pack?” 

**

By the time they get through the final portal, Quentin is shivering again, wet-eyed and pale. Eliot can feel the energy seeping out of him. He collapses on the floor in the darkened room, holding Lamb to his face, his eyes empty. 

Eliot’s torn between his need to hold him, and his need to get the place set up and comfortable for his family. There aren’t any bulbs in the light sockets, but Margo sets some spells running to get the place warm and bright. It isn’t too bad once Eliot has figured out the layout: there are two rooms, one with a large bed and an attached bathroom. It’s all relatively clean though someone has clearly been smoking something pretty strong in here. 

“I think I should put Quentin in the shower,” Eliot says softly to Margo. “Is that OK?” 

“Yeah, I’ll get the bedroom set up.” She yawns. She did a lot of magic today, and even for Bambi, that’s exhausting. 

Though Eliot spelled him clean, he suspects Quentin is still uncomfortable from his accident. He gently pries Lamb from his arms, and leads him to the bathroom. Quentin relaxes a little when Eliot turns the water on, resting his head on Eliot’s shoulder. He raises his arms when Eliot undresses him, but he doesn’t do anything for himself. His eyes are heavy. 

They wash together. Eliot holds Quentin’s sudsy-warm body in his arms, rubbing his face into the soft, tender skin at Quentin’s neck, breathing his pheromones in deeply, breath by breath. 

He doesn’t know what will happen, but he has a sense of contentment. They’ve escaped. He doesn’t have to see Quentin get more tired and grey and worn-down. They can make their own fucking decisions. 

Plus, he doesn’t have to decide what to do for his dissertation.

Eliot shuts his eyes, letting the warm water play over his neck. All that matters is Quentin, and getting him warm and comfortable. Whatever else happens, happens.


	30. Chapter 30

“I see we lost the other submissive,” the third year in charge says. “That’s good, we were supposed to pair you guys up, and I’m not sure how that would have worked with three.” 

Julia puts her hand on Alice’s shoulder. “We’re going to be partners.” 

“Nope, she’s going with him.” The third year jerks her thumb at Penny. “Pick someone else.” 

Alice had counted on having Julia with her. She’s been naked in front of Julia before. It might even be nice to share more secrets, rather than acutely terrible. She glances at Penny, who had been standing next to Kady. 

Julia sighs. She kisses Alice’s cheek, and goes to stand by Kady. Penny folds his arms. He looks at Alice and shrugs. She shrugs back. She likes Penny: he isn’t a terrible person to be paired with, but he’s definitely her third choice, after Julia and Kady. She guesses he feels the same way. 

“We should get you something to drink,” Penny says. 

“You and Kady always say that.” Alice adjusts her glasses. “OK, maybe this time it’s a good idea.” 

* 

It probably _is_ a good idea, because mixing the weird goop with Penny and then getting naked is excruciating even with whiskey in her system. Even though Penny walks around with his chest out half of the time, he doesn’t seem to be comfortable with being naked either. He keeps folding and unfolding his arms, and trying to put his hand into a pocket that isn’t there. 

Being outside makes things particularly horrible. The quiet, starry night reminds Alice of losing Charlie at the fountain. She feels very alone. 

“I won’t tell anyone,” Alice says. 

“Won’t tell them what?” Penny is instantly suspicious. 

“Uh.” Alice touches her glasses and tries to pretend that they’re clothes. “You know, your secret.” 

“I know.” Penny shakes his head. “You’re good, Alice. I just thought I’d be telling Kady.” 

“Maybe it’ll be less embarrassing to tell me.” Alice scuffs her toes against the cold ground. “We’re the only subs left, now.” 

“I knew we would be.” His face turns pensive. “Do you feel like you’re going to be next? Now they’ve picked off Coldwater?” 

“They’re not getting rid of me until I want to go.” Alice is worn out: helping Quentin and the others escape last night drained her, and there hasn’t been any time to recover.

“Yeah. We’re not like him.” Penny doesn’t meet her eyes. 

“We are.” Her voice is soft.

Penny nods. “I know.” 

They’re quiet. Then Penny says, “Do you think admitting that I’m like Coldwater is enough of a secret for this to work?” 

“I don’t think so. I don’t feel anything.” Alice rubs her arms. “Why do you think they put us together?” 

Penny shrugs. “To fuck with us?” 

Alice wishes Julia were here, holding her. They could warm up, skin to skin. She’s not sure what secret she would tell her, but she’s sure there are a lot of things she could say. And Julia would smile her special smile, and touch her lips to Alice’s, and Alice would feel... 

Not like this. Not cold and small and scared. 

Penny offers her the whiskey again. She swallows, wrinkling her face up. She can smell his discomfort too, and some part of her wants to nuzzle against him, to make a little nest for the two of them, while they wait for their doms to come home. But she’s hugged Penny exactly once, and Julia was there, and anyway she’s not in the habit of listening to her instincts. 

“You’re anxious.” Penny’s voice is accusing. 

“You are, too.” 

“Let’s just...” Penny rubs his face. “Fuck this. I was going to tell Kady how I felt about her, I guess. How I... I don’t want this to just be fucking. How she makes me feel – oh, fuck it, how she makes me feel like I’m in exactly the right place when I’m with her. She doesn’t make me feel like a stupid sub, but she doesn’t let me get away with bullshit. I...” 

He takes another gulp of whiskey. 

“You love her.” Alice doesn’t meet his eyes. “I get it.” 

Penny nods. “I love her.” He folds his arms around his knees. “I don’t know how she feels about me.” 

“She’ll tell you.” Alice is thinking of the ways Kady has touched her: both tender and firm. The way she’s always so blunt, and yet gives Alice and Julia what they need. Alice’s chest hurts. She likes them both. She even likes Penny. “I feel safer with them than I’ve ever felt in my life.” 

Alice can’t believe she said it. She swallows down a feeling so intense it makes her think she’s going to vomit. “I was never safe before. I was so alone, especially since... Since Charlie died. I d-didn’t know things could ever... That there could ever be people who I would like. Or love. Or that they might feel the same about me.” 

“Alice.” Penny’s gazing at her: intensely focused. His arms open. “Come here.” 

And she wants to, she wants to hug him, but something is wrong. Something is constricting her throat, her chest. At first she thinks she’s feeling too much, and then she’s aware of the magic coursing through her. She looks at Penny: his body in contorting, spasming. She wants to help him, but the same bands of pain spread through her, and she opens her mouth, but her lips aren’t there any more... 

**

On the second night in Brakebills South, Alice can’t sleep. She’s not very good at sleeping in general. The first night was easy. She basically passed out after being a goose and then becoming a human again. She could still taste the high, cold air in her lungs, and she slept dreaming of clouds and oceans. But tonight, her head is full of all the things she hasn’t been able to say, and her body aches with fatigue and with the frustration of attempting wordless magic and getting nowhere. 

She meets Julia in the corridor. It’s dark, and it’s hard to understand what Julia is gesturing and mouthing at her. After a second, Julia holds out her arms, and Alice steps into the hug. She rests her head on Julia’s shoulder, and breathes in her scent. Since there aren’t any showers, Julia smells more intensely musky than usual, but Alice loves it. She feels herself moan, and apparently wordless sounds are still possible, because she hears it, a breathy, needy sound, in the cold corridor. 

Julia takes her hand. As they turn the corner, they bump into Kady and Penny. Penny’s forehead is resting against Kady’s, their arms looped around each other. Julia nudges Alice and smiles. Penny sees them first, and he winks. 

Alice remembers their aborted hug. It feels like weeks ago now. She holds out her hand to him, not sure what she’s expecting. Suddenly they’re all around her, Kady, Penny, Julia, the four of them pressing warm, tired bodies against one another in the cold air. Alice is nuzzling up against Kady’s throat, and Julia’s tucked under Penny’s arm, and Kady kisses Julia’s cheek. 

There’s a feedback of pheromones almost instantly, as though their bodies were waiting for this. Alice can sense the tops’ protectiveness and need, and Penny’s longing mirrors her own. She feels an intense comfort as well as an ache of a wanting. She’s been scared, she’s been alone, and now they – 

They smell so, so good. 

She tilts her head back, without thinking about it, baring her throat. Julia nuzzles at her skin, and then licks. Alice touches Kady’s mouth with her lips, and Kady kisses her, a slow, tender kiss. Alice tilts her head, so she can meet Penny’s eyes. His face is unclear in the moonlight. He touches her cheek: he looks at her with careful consideration, as though he’s asking her a question. Then Julia laughs, a soft, silvery sound in the dark. Julia is holding Alice’s hand, but she grips Penny’s wrist with her other hand, and then Alice leans back, against Julia’s chest, and Penny ducks his head, and puts his hand on her jaw, and smiles. He mouths something she can’t really understand, but she opens her mouth, and they kiss, a slow unravelling of mouths. 

Kady touches them, and jerks her head towards one of the rooms. 

There’s a single bed. The floor is freezing, but Penny and Alice, driven by nesting instincts they’ve long suppressed, take the mattress off the bed frame, gather the pillows, the blankets. Kady watches them, laughing, and Julia nods, and leaves, returning with more pillows, more blankets, until they’ve made a space on the floor that can accommodate the four of them with just enough room to be in skin contact without actually spraining something. 

Julia nuzzles Alice, holding her close, and her mouth shapes the words, “Good girl,” and Alice shoves her gently, but she’s smiling. Alice takes off her shirt, and Penny drinks in the sight of her boobs like they’re a gift from heaven. Kady guides his head towards Alice’s chest, and Alice feels the surprising scratch of stubble against soft skin. They’re in the centre, Alice and Penny, framed on each side by their tops. The warmth of skin against hers makes her realise how cold she was: she’s opening up, heating up, unfurling. 

It’s easier without words. They’re in the dark, and she and Penny have made them a nest, and it feels like a den, and she has all the pieces she needs: the two tops, guarding them, their scent filling the room, and the other sub, warm and yielding beside her. They’re safe, they belong: she feels a primal heat in her belly, spreading outwards through her. She feels like she’s been seeking this scent, this warmth, this darkness, all her life, and she’s finally found it. 

Breath echoes around them. Alice shifts position without really thinking about it: now her head is between Julia’s thighs, and she’s lapping, lapping at the heat she finds there, while Kady’s hand is pressed against her clit. She’s mostly aware of the taste of Julia, spilling over her tongue, the core of her heat, and the taste makes Alice’s cunt clench and clench, and she’s rocking back into Kady’s fingers. She can smell Penny’s arousal, and she hears skin on skin, mixed with the scent of rough breath, and then she thinking maybe Penny’s fucking Kady, but she’s not sure of any of it, because all that matters is the warmth against her back, and feeling of Julia wrapped around her, and the way Kady is opening her up...

**

The rhythms of day and night are all wrong in the Antarctic. Everyone sleeps badly, and she isn’t the only one who finds solace in sleeping with other people. Alice isn’t even sure how much time is passing: there are periods of darkness when they try to sleep, and periods when they’re awake, but it’s all a mess of snow and cold and fear. 

She can’t understand why Myakovsky hasn’t provided any way for them to wash. Surely he suffers too, in the stink of them all, but maybe he’s so marinated in alcohol that he doesn’t notice. Alice smells like sex, like Julia, and like Kady and Penny; and the musk of her unwashed body. Her hair is stiff and uncomfortable. Her thighs and armpits itch. But this doesn’t bother her as much when she finds her way back to her partners, and they kiss and fuck in the silence, or just lie there, holding each other, as the snow drifts against the windows. 

Most nights, Alice creeps back to her room and tries to snatch a few hours of sleep on the narrow bed. She always feels exhausted and hungry, and sleep doesn’t come so she practices magic wrapped in her blankets, her throat and jaw sore from tension. She smells her fingers and wrists to calm down when panic rises: Julia’s scent is so embedded in her skin that she wonders if it will ever go away. She hopes not. 

It’s on one of her early morning treks back to her room that Myakovsky waylays her. 

The alcohol on his breath is enough to make her dizzy. 

“Hello, little A student,” he greets her. “What are you up to?” 

Alice doesn’t try to make words, but she feels something change in her mouth and throat. A lock undone. 

Myakovsky nods. “You noticed the end of my spell, didn’t you?” He waves his hand. “Almost all the rest are worthless, you know. Not you.” 

She shrugs. Now that she can speak, she doesn’t want to. 

“The Traveller, maybe. Maybe some potential there. I’m not prejudiced. Sometimes the best Magicians are submissive. You have to work so much harder.” 

“Can I go to bed now?” Alice’s voice comes out squeaky. 

“You stink of them, you know. It’s all over you.” He doesn’t touch her, but his eyes rake over her, and his nostrils twitch. “You have to let that go. The sex is fine. It’s good. But you can’t get connected. You have so much more to learn. Compassion will hold you back. People. Shed them.” 

“I don’t want to be that kind of Magician.” 

“That’s the only kind of Magician there is.” He laughs. “Are you hungry? You look hungry. Good. You’re going outside today.” 

**

_I don’t want to be that kind of Magician._

Those words echo in Alice’s mind as she and the rest of the first-years are forced outside. The cold is indescribable: knocking all thought from her mind. She knows she can’t survive it for long, especially in these inadequate clothes. She can feel the other students around her, their magical presence brushing against her mind, and it’s as though the cold has worked through their defences. She can feel Kady and Julia; but she can also feel Gretchen and Todd, the whisper of their magic like an itch. She can even feel Penny, Penny who is always so well warded that she doesn’t get a sense of him in her mind even when he’s eating her out. 

She takes a breath of cold air, and regrets it. It’s too hard to breathe. She needs to – She needs to – 

Myakovsky throws a tub of animal fat out to them, walrus probably, not enough for all of them to use. Barely enough for one of them to create a workable heat spell. They’re all moving towards it, floundering on the ice. Aware of hands numbing, noses freezing. “No,” Alice says, the sound coming uncertain. No one hears her. 

_I don’t want to be that kind of Magician._

She’s thinking of geese, of how the warm down protected them, of how they flew in formation, even when they were exhausted. Even when it seemed that there was no hope of ever reaching safety. 

“Julia,” she whispers. Her voice cracks. “Julia!” 

And somehow Julia hears her over the wind. They work together, then, first Julia and Kady, then Penny, then all of them, all the band of frantic, frightened Magicians. They remember pieces of the spells they need. Animal transformation is hard, taking more power than one Magician can channel. Becoming geese was the product of spells from many members of the Brakebills faculty. 

But there’s a lot of power here, between them all, and they’re desperate. 

“I don’t know if we can hold it together,” Gretchen says. She’s gone past shivering, her face pinched and white. “Not out here.” 

“Alice can,” Penny says, and Kady grips Alice’s hand in her own freezing fingers, and says, “We both can.” 

The ringed seal lives in the Arctic, not Antarctic, but Alice can hold the image of one in her mind, and she thinks it can survive out here. She holds the seal-shape in her thoughts, the idea of seal, the mind of seal, and leans into the spells Kady and Julia are patterning, the power Penny is giving her. She can feel the seal inside her skin, and then it’s bubbling through her, and she’s not Alice. 

None of them are human now. 

They flounder over the ice, and find a lead of black water. When she splashes into it, it’s wonderful. She’s not cold or afraid. She’s at home. She licks her lips: she’s hungry, and she smells living food down here, fish, crustaceans. 

Underwater, she can feel the others, too: seal-Kady, Julia, Penny. She doesn’t have the words for how she senses them, but her seal-body knows where they are. The patterns of their swimming ripple against her skin. They’re the most important thing in the dark. Even as she swims after the fish, as she lets go of her human mind, she’s still aware of them. The other parts of her. 

She is seal, and she is water, and she is hungry. Her mouth fills with the taste of blood, the sweet hot pulse of fish. She swims to the surface, hauling herself onto the ice. They share a pile of fish, the four of them. A group of seals, barking and whistling to each other far out on the pack ice. A group of Magicians, discovering themselves. 

Myakovsky doesn’t matter. The rules don’t matter. They matter: Alice and her partners.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From here on, the fic deals with ageplay more explicitly, and there are more descriptions of wetting, as well as the use of diapers and pacifiers. I really appreciate everyone who has read this fic, and those of you who have taken the time to comment and interact with me. It’s meant so much. I will understand if you don’t want to read any further.

After the third night of waking in a wet bed, Eliot decides to take matters into his own hands. It’s hard on Quentin to wake up like this: he’s always tearful and apologetic, and while Bambi hasn’t said anything, Eliot’s not sure how long she’s going to tolerate sharing a bed with Quentin, and they don’t have a lot of other options in the tiny apartment. 

They’re not exactly wealthy right now, so Eliot lifts some extra cash when he’s at the ATM. Quentin’s worth a little petty theft on his conscience. There’s a fairly seedy looking store catering towards submissives only a few blocks away: Eliot’s walked past it several times on the way to get groceries. He goes there first, hoping he won’t have to walk further. 

Closest to the front, there are predictable selections of handcuffs, floggers and crops, reeking of cheap leather or plastic sprayed to look like leather. There’s a wide selection of rope in the centre, and towards the back there are more esoteric products, including a range of butt plugs, and a small section that might contain what Eliot’s looking for. 

First, Eliot picks up a package of protective underwear that’s so discreet it barely qualifies as a diaper. Quentin could wear these inside his pyjama pants and they’d basically be invisible. Then he looks at a much larger package: the diapers inside this are patterned with moons, clouds and stars, and promise to be cosy, comfortable and fully absorbent. “Your little will love the feeling of complete care!” the label promises. 

And that’s what Eliot wants to give Quentin: he doesn’t want him to feel like he should be ashamed of the bed-wetting. He wants Quentin to feel like his special little boy, who deserves moons and stars, and whom Eliot loves to care for more than anything else. Quentin doesn’t need discretion: he needs to feel safe. 

As Eliot picks the larger package, he also notices a range of pacifiers, sized for adults. Mostly, Eliot is very happy to be Quentin’s personal pacifier. He thinks about Quentin’s hot mouth locked around Eliot’s finger, and the sleepy look in his eyes, and he doesn’t want to lose that. But he still thinks a pacifier might be useful. He picks out a packet of two, and wanders back towards the counter. On the way, he picks up a flogger: it’s kind of cheap and not as soft as he’d prefer, but he thinks it might work for Quentin, too. 

He returns home with his special purchase alongside an armful of other groceries: milk, oranges, eggs, pasta. A package of cookies. Lotion and powder. Quentin is curled up pretty much where he left him, Lamb in his arms. He’s holding one of the textbooks they took from Brakebills, but he hasn’t turned a page since Eliot left. 

He startles when Eliot says his name. “Hey,” Eliot says, kissing the top of his head. Lately, Eliot has insisted on a shower regime, and Quentin’s hair is soft and clean. “I’ve got some plans for you before bed. Go get washed up while I put this stuff away.” 

Quentin carefully marks his place in the book, as though he’s been reading it. He looks at Eliot: his eyes dull, without much curiosity. “OK,” he says. 

Bambi’s in the tiny kitchen, going through the circumstances for another warding spell. She and Eliot have spent most of the day trying to deal with hedges, and they’re both exhausted. It’s so hard to make nice with people you’ve looked down on for years. 

Eliot begins unpacking his purchases. 

“Oh,” Bambi’s eyes flick over the diapers. “Good call. Did you talk to him about it?” 

Eliot shakes his head. “I’m going to bring it up gently.” 

“Poor kid. I’ll give you the place to yourselves for a few hours: I could use a drink.” 

It’s funny, how she can be so blunt and so tactful at the same time. Eliot feels a rush of love for her. He kisses her forehead too, like he just kissed Quentin’s. “Next time, I’ll come with you.” 

“Hmm.” She tilts her head up to look at him. “You’ll have to promise to be fun, not just mooning over your baby.” 

Eliot snorts. “I’m still more fun than anyone else.” 

“Are you sure about that.” Margo raises an eyebrow, voice flat. She looks back at her calculations, scratches out one number and puts in another. 

Eliot thinks he should feel wounded, but she’s probably right: he’s not as much fun as he used to be. 

In the bedroom, Quentin’s sitting on the bed, covers pulled up around him, hair sticking up where he attempted to brush it. He smells of toothpaste. “That was quick,” Eliot says. “I bought you some presents.” 

“Oh?” Quentin’s still too down to show any excitement. 

Eliot gets out the flogger and lets Quentin handle it. He runs the leather threads over his palm. Margo has used one just like this on Eliot, so he knows how it feels: a slow, warm burn, less blunt than a spank. 

Quentin looks at him. “Have I been bad?” 

He doesn’t sound worried, more perplexed. Eliot sits beside him, and feels himself relax as Quentin automatically snuggles in against his side. “Of course not. We’ve talked about this: I’m never going to punish you by hurting you. You’ve been a very good boy going through a really difficult time, and I thought this might ground you a little. What do you think? I know you liked it when Bambi spanked you.” 

Quentin nods. “I wasn’t sure if you’d want to.” 

“Well, it might be a good thing to try today. If you let me take really good care of you.” 

He touches Eliot’s jaw. Looking up at Eliot, his expression is open and affectionate, and not as clouded by anxiety as it has been over recent weeks. “You always take such good care of me, Daddy.” 

Then Eliot can’t help but kiss him, and there’s the warm familiarity of his mouth, the toothpaste taste of him, the heat burning and burning and never smouldering. 

Quentin’s eyes are big and dark when Eliot finally breaks away. 

“Clothes off, baby boy. Lie on your stomach.” 

As always, he’s eager to obey, wriggling into position on the bed. The sheets are pale, but Quentin’s skin is even paler. The dark hair on his arms, back and legs shows up starkly against the white. He looks thinner, smaller. Eliot wants to cover him with his own body, press and press against him until there are no boundaries between them, not even skin. 

“Safeword?” Eliot asks, voice coming out higher than usual. 

“Raisins.” Quentin tilts his head, squinting at Eliot through his long hair. 

“Good boy.” He rubs firm circles over Quentin’s back and shoulders, squeezing his little ass. He straddles Quentin’s thighs, and Quentin makes a little sound of pleasure. Eliot is still dressed, and his cock is hardening a little, because it’s always interested in being on top of Quentin, but it’s easy to ignore. He starts at Quentin’s shoulders and rubs all the way down his back, slow and careful, somewhere between a caress and a massage. He can feel tension leaving Quentin’s body as he sinks into the mattress. He makes soft, needy sounds, deep in his throat. 

Eliot digs his fingers into Quentin’s ass cheeks, and lower, rubbing thighs. Long silky leg-hairs against his fingers, softness of the skin between his legs. He picks up the flogger and trails it over Quentin’s ass. 

Quentin jerks, making a startled sound.“Tickles,” he says. 

“Oh yes?” Eliot rubs his fingers over Quentin’s cheeks soothingly, and then tries the flogger again, a slightly firmer touch. 

Quentin wriggles again. “I’m sorry. It’s just too itchy.” 

He sounds uncomfortable, which could be interesting, but Eliot only wants to soothe and ground tonight. “How about this?” 

He brings the flogger down on Quentin’s ass in a more direct arc, a gentle _thwap_ of leather and skin. “Mm,” Quentin murmurs. “That’s nice.” 

He relaxes again, snuggling into the sheets, as Eliot alternates between gentle strikes of the flogger and firm massage over his thighs and butt. Soft skin, soft breath, relaxed muscles: Eliot feels himself sliding into a comfortable space in his mind, too. He’s caring for his boy, he’s in control, and they’re both right here, skin to skin, safe and whole. 

Quentin looks over his shoulder at Eliot. “Is this supposed to hurt, Daddy?” He’s smiling, looking a little bratty. 

Eliot leans down impulsively, kissing his shoulder, and then his neck, under his soft hair. “No, baby. Do you want it to?” 

“Well, when you get out a toy like that, a boy might have certain expectations.” 

Eliot laughs. “I can do it harder, if that’s what you want.” 

“OK.” 

“Stop wriggling then. Keep your head down, and your eyes shut. You’re supposed to be relaxing.” 

He snorts. “I’ll try.” 

Eliot both wants to hit him harder and is terrified of hurting him, of going past some invisible line. He tries to imagine what it would be like if Bambi were here. She’d tease him for being so cautious. She’d pull Quentin’s hair and he’d moan in response. He imagines her small hands, the sound of her striking Quentin’s ass. Thinking of Margo is inspiring. 

He tries again, harder, and the sound Quentin makes is completely worth it. Quentin’s arching up, disobeying Eliot’s instruction to stay still, raising his ass to the touch of the flogger. All Eliot can say is, “Good boy,” as Quentin’s ass pinkens under the leather. The blunt, broad strokes means that Eliot feels safe from actually hurting Quentin, but Quentin is obviously aware of it each time he hits him, and the touch seems to stretch between them, a pulse of heat. Even when he’s not touching him, he can feel the impact on Quentin, like his skin is Quentin’s skin. 

Eliot’s the one who stops first. He slides down the bed so that he can lick the warm skin of Quentin’s ass. Quentin makes a low, surprised sound in his throat, hips flopping back against the sheets. Then he wriggles, humping slightly. 

Eliot keeps licking, letting his teeth dig into the soft skin. He wants to leave love-bites on Quentin’s ass. Quentin murmurs in response, cheeks clenching. “Daddy,” he murmurs, and Eliot can almost hear the drop further into subspace. 

He doesn’t push it too far: once Quentin is whimpering, he gets the lotion he bought earlier, and rubs it carefully into Quentin’s skin. Quentin’s still humping the bed, making soft sounds in his throat. Eliot thinks he wants to be told to stop, but he’s not going to do that. 

“Roll over,” he says. 

Quentin’s little cock is hard and reddened, his face flushed, his lashes fluttering. “El,” he murmurs. “Daddy.” 

Eliot planned to go straight for Quentin’s cock, but first he’s kissing him, straddling his body, bracketing Quentin’s limbs with his own. “Such a good boy,” he says against Quentin’s mouth. “Such a good boy for me. Did you have a good time?”

“Uh-huh. It was really nice.” His hips thrust up against Eliot’s pants. 

“Let me take care of you,” Eliot says, and kisses him again. When he nips at Quentin’s lips, Quentin moans in response. He cups his hand over Quentin’s cock, and rubs his thumb over the head. Quentin jerks: eager, aroused. It won’t be long before he comes. 

Eliot settles back over Quentin’s crotch, licking Quentin’s cock, and then sucking it into his mouth. Quentin keens in response, a thin and primal sounds. _Oh his boy, his little sub, so vocal._ Eliot wants to tell him again how good he is, but his mouth is full of the musky, bitter taste, his nose full of Quentin’s scent. 

“Daddy,” Quentin’s murmuring. “D-daddy. Daddy.” 

Eliot squeezes Quentin’s hip. Quentin always has permission to come unless Eliot specifically tells him not to, but he still likes to be told that it’s allowed. Eliot takes his mouth off Quentin’s cock and tells him he’s allowed to come. 

Quentin looks down at him, lip between his teeth, eyes dark. “Yes, please; more, please,” he murmurs. Eliot’s own cock jolts at the sounds of his husky ‘please’, but he simply tongues Quentin again. 

A few moments later he gets a mouthful of Quentin’s spunk. He keeps sucking, feeling himself begin to drool, as Quentin shivers through his orgasm. With one hand on Quentin’s leg, grounding him, he gropes for a tissue, and spits. Carefully wipes his face. 

He lies next to Quentin on the bed, tucking the blanket up around him, gathering his baby into his arms. His cock presses against the seam of his pants, and Quentin’s thigh settles against it. Eliot feels an urge to rut up against it, but he doesn’t. Quentin nuzzles his neck, eyes sleepy. 

“I got you something else while I was out.” 

“That’s a lot of presents,” Quentin says. His hand is on Eliot’s hip, stroking gently. Usually he’d end the evening with Quentin sucking his cock, but he has different plans. 

“I don’t think you’ll like this one so much.” Eliot pauses. He’s not sure how to introduce the diapers, but he wants to do it while Quentin’s like this: sleepy, pliant. “I’m not sure. I got it for you because I want you to be comfortable, and to get some more sleep at night.” 

Quentin sits up a little, eyeing him.

“Will you trust me?” Eliot asks. “You don’t have to go through with it if you really hate it.” 

He takes the package out of the bag. 

A pause. Quentin rubs his chin. Eliot feels like they’re on a thread, and he’s not sure which way they’re going to fall. Then Quentin says, “Oh, diapers. They always make me wear them in the hospital because they don’t like to change the sheets at night. They’re OK.” 

Eliot swallows. “Oh, baby. I didn’t know they made you wear them there. If the – the associations are too much...” 

Quentin shakes his head. The relaxed, subby look is leaving his face. Instead, Eliot can see him trying to be sensible. “No, I know I’ve been peeing the bed every night. It’s not really tenable. I should have got some myself.” 

“That’s not your responsibility,” Eliot says. Because he’s really failed if he’s made Quentin feel bad about not taking care of this himself. “You’re my – you’re my my special little boy, and you should get the cosiest diapers, if that’s what you need.” 

Quentin’s finger is going into his mouth. He nibbles on it anxiously. “It’s a good idea, El. I was going to offer to sleep on the couch because I keep getting the bed wet.” 

Eliot can’t tolerate the idea of Quentin sleeping on the couch even as a hypothetical. He thinks of Quentin as needy, but sometimes he worries that he’s the needy one in the relationship. “This is much better.” 

“You didn’t have to – make a big deal. I would have worn them if you’d asked me.” 

Eliot knows this, too. He wonders why he felt any trepidation. His boy is so good. He feels flushed with it: how lucky he is, how sweet Quentin is. He kisses him. “I know you would, sweet boy. I wanted to do the other stuff too. You know I like taking care of you.” 

“I do.” Quentin squeezes Eliot’s hand. “Let’s get this over with.” 

Quentin gets the diaper out of the packet, but allows Eliot to settle him on the bed, and spread some more lotion on his genitals. Eliot feels tender as he does it: it’s another way of being close to Quentin’s body. As it turns out, Quentin is more competent with the actual mechanics of the diapers than Eliot is, telling him where to fix the tape, and to do it tighter. It doesn’t take long, but by the time they’re finished, Quentin looks a little stressed. 

“How does it feel?” Eliot asks. 

Quentin shrugs. “Warm. I like the pattern.” 

“Do you? There are other ones if you don’t like these.” 

“No, the moons are nice. Less clinical than the ones I had before.” His thighs are spread wide to accommodate the bulk, and watching him, Eliot feels an intense sense of intimacy and tenderness. He looks both so young and so vulnerable, and so tired and adult. 

Eliot lies down next to him, and he snuggles easily into Eliot’s arms. Sighs through his nose. He’s mostly naked, a musky warmth against Eliot’s side. 

“I got you something else,” Eliot says. 

“Wow. It’s not my birthday yet, you know.” 

Eliot removes the pacifiers, and opens the packet. A little struggle with the plastic and tape. He hands one to Quentin. “You’re always welcome to suck on my fingers, baby, but when I’m not here, I thought you could try this.” 

“Oh.” Quentin sits up, looking at the pacifier like he’s been handed a jewel. “Oh.” He’s blushing, biting his lip. “I always wanted to try one of these, but I thought I... I thought I should try to be a big boy.” 

“Oh, darling. You don’t ever have to be a big boy.” 

Eliot feels like he’s finally said the right thing, because Quentin glances up at him, and curls closer, holding the pacifier to his lips before finally putting it into his mouth. A long silence, then the sound of sucking. 

“How is it?” Eliot asks. 

Quentin nuzzles into Eliot’s armpit, and then gropes around behind him, finding the soft shape of Lamb. He snuggles the comfort item under his arm, and yawns a little through his nose, holding tight to Eliot. A moment passes, and suddenly Eliot’s aware he can smell the scent of a contented submissive: comforting, powdery, clean. Eliot hadn’t realised he’d been missing it, or how upset and jagged Quentin’s scent had been. He feels his own body relax: and now it’s like there’s nothing between them, not even skin, just a mingling of scent and warmth.


	32. Chapter 32

Quentin wakes early, but Margo, who joined them in bed very late, is already up. His mouth is dry. As he rolls over, he realises that’s because of sucking the pacifier, which is lying on the pillow beside his head. He picks it up, waits for the wave of embarrassment to crash into him, but it doesn’t come. Eliot gave it to him: Eliot told him not to be a big boy. He squirms a little, feeling something in between happiness and shame. 

The squirming makes him realise that the diaper has served its purpose. It’s cold now, and not exactly comfortable, but it doesn’t feel terrible, either. He’s slept better and longer than he has in the days they’ve spent in the apartment, and better than all the weeks building up to Brakebills South. 

He gets up as quietly as he can. Eliot doesn’t stir. In the bathroom, he drinks directly from the faucet, easing the dryness in his mouth, before taking off the diaper, and climbing in the shower. Under the warm spray, he realises that it’s been a while since he felt like showering was comforting rather than a huge effort. He lets the spray play on his skin, savouring the good feeling. 

Margo is in the kitchen, going over pages of wards, calculations and translations of obscure spells. When she sees him, she gives a faint smile, but she looks tired too. 

“I’ll go on a coffee run,” Quentin says. “What would you like?” 

He goes out without his coat, which is a mistake, because he’s shivering by the time he gets into the cafe, but when he returns with three too-expensive coffees and a bag of pastries, any discomfort is worth it for the pleasure Margo takes in sipping her latte and choosing a blueberry Danish. 

“I know I... haven’t been helping. That much.” Quentin sips his own filter coffee. “Or at all. But, uh. Is there anything I can do? How’s it going?” 

“Kid. This is the first day you’ve been able to get up in the morning. You don’t have to pitch in.” 

Guilt surges, sour, in Quentin’s stomach. “I know. I’m sorry.” 

Margo raises her eyebrows, like he’s said something very stupid. She digs through the pile of papers in front of her, and hands him a page covered with various drafts of a warding spell. “Can you check my math?” 

Quentin takes the page she offers him. It actually feels like math would be relaxing today. The heavy weight on his head has eased, and it’s made him realise exactly how heavy it was. How much he’s been struggling. The pacifier that Eliot gave him is in his pants pocket, and he takes it out and holds it in his hand. Just knowing it’s there is comforting, like knowing Lamb is safe in his bed. 

“What about the Hedges? I know it didn’t go well the first time, with El.” 

“Yeah, your Daddy owes them money.” Margo rolls her eyes. “Idiot. He didn’t pay for his stupid drugs and now they hate him. Which is shitty, because I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but he’s better at charming people than I am.” 

Quentin carefully doesn’t say anything. 

“I talked to the Top Bitch yesterday. She’s _awful_.” Margo says this admiringly. “She has connections, I have connections. We’re still sniffing around each other.” She looks at Quentin. “Don’t worry, though. I’ve been working on this for months. We’re going to be fine. I’m not even sure Brakebills is looking for us.” She takes the raspberry Danish Quentin was going to give to Eliot. “It’s disrespectful, really. I’m a threat.” 

“I know. But, you know, they’re really good at underestimating people.” 

Margo snorts. “Their loss.” 

She’s scrolling through her phone now. Quentin looks down at the page of numbers. For a moment, it all swims in front of him, and then the calculations shift, and he can see the logic. The pattern shapes itself beneath his eyelids. He can see what Margo’s trying to do, and he thinks he can see the mistake, too. It reminds him of math classes in senior year of high school, when he and Julia were so ahead of everyone else that they’d been set assignments by a post-grad from NYU who loved to make Quentin cry. Finally, one day, he understood a formula that had been opaque to him, and he’d realised that he could pretty much figure anything out as long as he worked at it. He still cried over a lot of things, but never again about math. 

He leans his head against his hand. When he’s finished with the coffee, his other hand goes to his pocket, and, before he knows what he’s doing, he’s got the pacifier in his mouth. It’s a little dusty from the pocket, but it quickly becomes comfortable again, and he feels himself relaxing. It’s easier to work with it in his mouth: he can concentrate better. He hums to himself, turning the page over, and doing the little tut that creates a basic calculator. 

He’s so absorbed he doesn’t notice Eliot’s in the room until he feels an arm going over his shoulder. “So you’re putting the baby to work.” 

“He put himself to work,” Margo says. 

“’M nearly done.” The pacifier falls out of his mouth as he speaks. He forgot it would do that. He rubs his face in embarrassment. 

Eliot leans over and kisses his forehead. “How did you sleep?” 

“Really well.” Quentin ducks his head. If Margo wasn’t there, he’d tell Eliot how helpful the diaper was, and how much he likes the pacifier, but instead he bends over the page, and makes a final tweak to the warding spell. 

He passes it to Margo. “How’s this?” 

As she checks it, he leans into Eliot, passing him the last pastry. “There’s coffee, too, but it might be cold.” 

“That’s an easy fix,” Eliot says, passing his hand over the paper container. Steam rises from the surface once more. 

Quentin’s head is a little fuzzy. It felt like a big morning, although he didn’t do very much. He’s used to this: after a really bad period every step forward exhausts him and sends him spiralling down again. He leans more into Eliot, and then slides the pacifier back into his mouth. It’s so comforting: the comfort definitely wins over any level of shame he feels. 

Eliot kisses his forehead again. 

“Fuck,” Margo says. She pushes the sheet towards Eliot. “And this kid was flunking out? This work is seamless.”

“This is a more supportive learning environment,” Quentin says. This time, he lets the pacifier fall into his hand in order to talk before popping it back in again. 

“That’s true. Fogg probably frowned on pacifiers,” Margo says. 

Quentin flushes. He knows Margo can see what he’s doing, but somehow having her actually acknowledge it makes it more embarrassing. 

“Which is ridiculous, because they’re clearly important study aids, as well as being adorable.” Eliot lights his morning cigarette. 

“And better for your skin than smoking,” Margo says, frowning at the ashtray. “Don’t smoke on the baby.” 

“The baby smokes,” Eliot complains. “He doesn’t mind.” 

“Well, I mind. Go smoke outside. Stretch your legs.” 

Eliot’s still wearing his robe. He puts out the cigarette, and Quentin listens as they continue to bicker. He feels himself relaxing, sucking his pacifier and snuggling into Eliot: he could nap now. But he probably shouldn’t. It’s still early. 

“So are we going to cast this?” he asks, pointing to the spell, when there’s a lull in the sniping. 

Margo stretches, flexes her fingers and shoulders. “It’ll take the three of us. Do you think you’re up for it?” 

Quentin nods. He feels excited to do magic again. Though it also feels – big. Maybe he _should_ take a nap first. 

“It’s a more comprehensive warding spell than I’ve done before.” Margo shows the paper to Eliot. “You can channel it for us. Your magical strength is like your dick: too big to be practical.” 

“Jesus, can we go ten minutes without joking about my dick?” 

Quentin laughs. “I don’t think so.” 

Eliot sighs. “It’s just one of the many burdens life has bestowed on me, I suppose. I’ll have to carry it with my usual grace.” 

Margo makes a squawking sound, coughs, and reaches for a bottle of water. 

“You OK there, Bambi?” Eliot asks. But his eyes are on the spell, his lips moving as he goes through the circumstances. This warding spell would allow them to travel unnoticed: travel further than the bounds of these few blocks. It’s what they all want to happen, because they’ll be freer and safer further from the school, but it’s much harder to ward people when they’re moving than when they’re in a stationary location. 

“This is good,” he says, looking over at her. “I’m impressed.” 

“Quentin was way more helpful than I’d have given him credit for. But yeah: I did construct a powerful spell.” 

Eliot smiles. Quentin likes the way he smiles at Margo: like he can never resist her. Like it’s impossible that she wouldn’t make him smile, no matter how much she’s also annoying or teasing him. “I’m sorry I haven’t been helping out more. I’ve... Even if the Hedges are assholes, there’s more I could’ve done.” 

Margo shrugs. “It’s OK. You’re in the new parent phase. You would’ve held me back.” 

Quentin nibbles his lip. He – he likes it when she talks about him like that. Like he’s their baby, or Eliot’s, anyway, and they can discuss him like he’s not there. But he also worries that he shouldn’t like it. It’s not – OK, calling himself a ‘big boy’ isn’t exactly an adult thing to do either, but it’s what comes into his mind. He should try to be a big boy, at least some of the time. 

“I could’ve helped more, too,” he says, in a small voice. 

“Boys.” Margo rolls her eyes. “I’ve been doing exceptionally well. I didn’t need you. And we’re pretty close to getting the fuck out of New York. If you want to make it up to me, you can do all the chores in the new house. And let me spank Quentin.” 

Her voice is firm, but Quentin feels himself relax. Sometimes he thinks Margo is the kindest person he knows: not the nicest, but the kindest. Until he met her, he didn’t know the two things were different, but he’s learnt that they are, and kind is way more important than nice. 

* 

“Do you think it would be safe for me to go and visit Dad?” Quentin asks. “Before we leave the city.” 

The table is spread with maps: both muggle and magical. The magical ones show paths of the moon, magical territories, and various circumstances. Somehow, looking at Google maps doesn’t work so well when you’re worried that you’re being followed by powerful magicians. 

“If we do it right,” Margo is saying, tracing a route through upstate New York, “It’ll basically be a normal road trip.” She pauses to look at Quentin, and then at Eliot. “Not by yourself,” she says. 

“Can Ted come to the city? Is he well enough?” Eliot asks. 

Quentin shrugs his shoulders. He wants to see Ted: he’s worried about him, but asking him to come to the city might make be too hard on him, and expecting Eliot and Margo to help him out with this feels selfish. “He’s had a lot of vertigo. He can’t drive. But, maybe? I know he goes for walks.” 

Eliot and Margo seem to be having one of their silent conversations, involving meaningful looks and raised eyebrows. “Skype him,” Margo says. “See what he says.” 

Quentin doesn’t want to tell Ted exactly what’s going on. Despite Ted knowing all the most important details of Quentin’s life – magic, Eliot – their recent conversations have been brief and circumspect. Quentin avoids calling him because he doesn’t like lying, and then feels terrible for avoiding it. 

But Ted, on Skype, doesn’t look as bad as Quentin had feared, and agrees to meet Quentin in Manhattan. 

“Meet him on Tuesday,” Margo says. “The moon is full, and Mars is in the fifth house. I’ve talked to Marina, and we’ll leave Thursday morning. I can’t believe how many fucking spells I’m teaching that bitch.” She sighs through her teeth. “Still, the new house is cute.” 

The house actually belongs to Alice’s aunt. They’ve pulled all the strings they have to find a safe place, including using Alice’s magician family. Marina, the top hedge in the city, has given them a range of strategies and spells for keeping their magical presence off-grid, and agreed to let them stay in the territory she considers hers. Margo keeps complaining that the price is too high. 

Quentin can’t believe it’s all falling into place. He wonders if his anxiety will finally diminish once they’re all safely in the four-bedroom house in the country. He doubts it. His brain always finds something new to be anxious about. 

“Tuesday,” Quentin agrees. He glances at Eliot, who puts his arm around him. Eliot was never exactly shy about touching him, but since they left Brakebills, he practically never stops. He spends most of his time holding Quentin’s hand, or pulling Quentin into his lap, and it calms both of them. Margo sometimes rolls her eyes, and sometimes snuggles into Eliot’s other side, petting Quentin vaguely, like he’s a cat she’s forgotten is on her lap. Their scents are mingling: they’re all starting to smell like one another, like it’s a real nest. 

“I’ll keep a warding spell around us, and we can wear those protective amulets,” Eliot says. 

Quentin nods, his stomach twisting anxiously. “Thanks, El. We can get cocktails after, if you want?” 

“No, you can’t,” Margo says. “Not without me, and I’m going to be stuck here finishing the circumstances.” 

Eliot rolls his eyes, and smiles a little. “Here’s what I’ll do, Bambi. I’ll take a little extra cash from the ATM, and I’ll buy some really good liqueurs for our new house. Champagne too. When we get there, we’ll celebrate with style.” 

“Get me a strap-on too.” Margo narrows her eyes, not letting herself be mollified. 

Eliot presses a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll get you ten, if that’s what you want.” 

Margo snorts. “Well, don’t weigh yourself down with sex toys. You need to keep the baby safe.” She reaches for Quentin’s hand, and squeezes it. “That’s the most important thing.” 

Quentin doesn’t protest that he can protect himself. He knows there would be no point. 

** 

Quentin thought they’d sit quietly in a cafe, but Ted says he wants to stretch his legs, so they end up in Central Park. Quentin forgot his gloves, and keeps his hands in his pockets. He stashed a pacifier in there before he left, because just touching the plastic rim calms him down. Both Ted and Eliot keep asking him if he’s cold, and it makes Quentin think how much colder it must be at the South Pole. Julia promised to get in touch as soon as they were back, but he hasn’t heard from her yet. 

“You’ve been having a hard time,” Ted says. He’s looking at Quentin knowingly. Quentin’s lost weight over the last month, and he knows depression always makes him grey and tired. He’d hoped it wasn’t obvious. 

“School has been...” Quentin swallows, his mouth bitter. “A lot.” 

“Are you taking your meds? Getting out into the fresh air?” Ted asks. 

_Fresh air. Right._ Quentin rubs his thumb over the pacifier, trying to ground himself. Eliot is walking slightly behind them, and Quentin knows it’s to give him space to talk to Ted, but he wishes Eliot would hold his hand. 

“That’s actually. What I wanted to talk to you about?” Quentin says. “I, um. We’re going to be travelling. For school? To the country. It’s like a study retreat. Lots of fresh air. And magic.” 

His voice is squeaky. He wishes he didn’t have to lie, but he doesn’t want to tell the whole story to Ted. It’s probably safer if Ted doesn’t know where he is. And Ted was so happy when he found out that Quentin was going to magic school: he doesn’t want to take that away from him. 

“That sounds nice, Curly Q.” Ted’s voice is gentle. They’re walking slowly, outpaced not only by joggers, but moms with strollers, too. “Will you be able to rest?” 

“Dad.” Quentin rubs his head. “I’m sorry I make you worry so much.” 

Ted squeezes his shoulder. “That’s part of being a parent.” 

“Not... Not as much as I make you worry.” 

“Oh, Q...” Ted begins. 

“Things – things have been so hard. For both of us. But I wanted you to know that my problems were all – me. It’s not. Not your fault. You’ve been...” He feels like crying. “You’ve been great.” 

It sounds lame, now that he voices. _Great_ doesn’t describe it at all. Ted has been there. In waiting rooms. In the car. Outside school gates. Up late, in the living room. Always there, calm and reassuring and full of kindness. Quentin didn’t always know what that meant; he didn’t always care. But now he feels it: all that love. All the time and space Ted gave him, without asking for anything in return. 

Ted stops walking, and draws Quentin in for a hug. It’s easier than speaking. Ted’s arms around him, heavy and familiar, the same old coat buttons digging into his cheek. “It’s been a privilege,” Ted says. Then he steps back. “You know I don’t like goodbyes. Especially not from you. Are you sure you’re coping at school?” 

Quentin looks over at Eliot, who stopped walking when they did. He feels the truth, sharp in his throat, like glass. “I’m doing fine at school,” he says, meeting Ted’s gaze. “I really am. And Eliot helps.” 

He reaches for Eliot’s hand, and feels Eliot’s warm, gloved fingers settle around his own. “I’m proud of him,” Eliot says. 

*

Quentin keeps it together until they get back to the apartment. Margo is sitting on the bed, flipping through another magical book, and Quentin squirms in next to her, burying his face in the gap between her side and the pillow. 

She makes a little sound of surprise, then pats the back of his neck. “Was it a mess?” she asks. 

“No,” Eliot says. Quentin feels the bed dip as he sits down too. “Quentin’s dad is – really a lot better than most dads. That makes it harder.” 

Quentin had been trying not to cry for hours, but now that it’s safe to do so, no tears are coming. Hiding is kind of nice, though. His cold nose presses into Margo’s shirt, warmed by her skin. 

“I’m taking your shoes off, Q,” Eliot says, and Quentin feels him get to work on the laces. Then, as though reading his mind, Eliot gives him Lamb and his pacifier. Quentin doesn’t feel ready to speak yet, not even to say thank you, but he relaxes a little, and pops his paci into his mouth. It helps. 

Eliot lies down on his other side, and Quentin’s bracketed between both of them. Eliot’s arm stretches over him, and settles on Margo’s leg. “Did you buy any wine?” she asks. 

“Mm-hmm. Do you want me to fix you a drink?”

“Stay here for now. Look at this, in Kawabata’s third treatise. Do you think it’ll help our workings?” 

Eliot groans, taking the book from her. Quentin knows he should sit up and look at it with them, but it’s too hard. He rubs Lamb’s ear against his cheek, letting the conversation wash over him. He can feel the purr of words in Eliot’s chest, and he’s safe, between his two people. Sometimes Quentin feels like he doesn’t have any skin, like every fear and hurt affects him ten times as much as it should, and sometimes he feels very far away from himself, as though he’s looking down on his body, and nothing really matters. Neither of those are good feelings. Right now, he doesn’t feel either of them: there’s sadness, all through his body, and also love. 

He relaxes. He feels his jaw loosen, soothed by the pacifier, and he stops clenching the muscles in his thighs and arms. The pain in his stomach eases. He feels warm, heat spreading over his groin, his legs – 

Heat. _Oh. Oh, no._

Quentin clamps his hand between his thighs, trying to stem the flow. It’s hard to scramble off the bed and keep all his muscles tense at the same time, and pee spills down his thighs and through his fingers. The bathroom is only a few steps away, but making it there feels impossible. He moves in a kind of desperate waddle, afraid that running will make him let go completely. 

He hears Eliot say his name, with a familiar concern, but Quentin can’t talk. In front of the toilet, he fumbles with his fly, but it’s damp and sticky, and when he lets go of his crotch, the pee spills down his legs in a rush. He sits on the toilet instead, panting, whimpering a little, peeing through his pants. 

He’s still got the pacifier in his mouth. He was biting on it hard as he ran for the bathroom, without thinking about it, and now he sucks on it as he lets his bladder relax. He’s a baby, he’s such a baby. Sometimes that feels OK, and sometimes it’s a horrible feeling. He’s so vulnerable, he’s so bad at taking care of himself, and that’s scary. He’s so sure everyone will get sick of him. 

“Sweetheart,” Eliot says, standing in the bathroom door. “Don’t be upset.” 

Quentin can see that there’s a little trail of pee, running along the floor to the toilet. He’s so gross. He sniffles, and wants to wipe his face, but his hands are wet, too. 

Eliot’s arms go around him. “It’s not your fault.” 

Quentin squirms. He wants to be held, and he’s also so embarrassed. What if Eliot never wants to have sex with him again? 

“Are you all done?” Eliot’s voice is falling into the gentle, Daddy register. Part of Quentin wants to fight against it, to say he’s a big boy and he doesn’t need Eliot to talk to him like that, but another part of him wants to fall into it. After all, he’s sucking his paci and sitting in wet clothes. He doesn’t really have any ground here. 

He nods against Eliot’s stomach.

Eliot performs the tut, the drying spell that he’s done so often in the last few months that now he doesn’t have to think about it. Quentin feels his clothes grow clean again, the urine removing itself from them and dispersing, but he still wants to wash. 

He takes the pacifier out. “Is Margo mad at me?” 

Eliot laughs as he helps Quentin to his feet. “She might have said something about not letting you on the furniture until you’re house-trained. But she was just teasing.” 

“She’s probably right,” Quentin says. 

“Hey.” Eliot tucks a strand of Quentin’s hair back behind his ear. He’s standing over him, and Quentin feels smaller than usual, as though he’s shrunk a foot. “I knew you were having a tough day, and I knew you hadn’t gone potty, and you have trouble remembering when you’re stressed out. I should have taken you to the bathroom.” 

“I should remember.” 

“But you’re just a baby boy. It’s my responsibility.” 

Part of Quentin wants to just say yes. _Yes, Daddy, it’s your responsibility. I don’t want to worry about it any more._ He doesn’t say that, but he doesn’t argue, either. He slumps forward, and Eliot wraps his arms around him again. “It was a really hard day.” 

Snuggled up against Eliot, he realises that – that El is hard. He can feel Eliot’s cock against his stomach. He ruts forward against it instinctively. 

Eliot rests his hands on Quentin’s hips. “We – we don’t have to do anything, baby.” 

“You like it when I have an accident,” Quentin says. He knows that a lot of doms do get off on this – at least in theory – and that Eliot’s been turned on by him being wet before. But it’s still a surprise. Quentin always felt nothing but shame about this. 

“Yeah. I like it when you’re not in control. When you need me to take care of you.” 

Quentin nuzzles into Eliot’s chest. He cups his hand over Eliot’s cock, feeling the blunt shape of it through Eliot’s pants. “I think giving you a blow job would probably make me feel better.” 

“Oh yes?” Eliot’s stroking his back in slow, careful circles. “Are you sure, darling? Because I don’t want you to think I expect it.” 

“Well, I can just suck my paci, but –” Quentin swallows. He looks up at Eliot, a little afraid that mentioning his pacifier in the same breath as cock-sucking is a mistake. But Eliot’s looking at him with interest, his expression a tiny bit amused. “But I think sucking your dick would help even more.” 

Through the open door, they hear Margo’s voice, “Let him suck your dick, idiot! Then let’s order something for dinner.” 

They’re both laughing. “Thanks, Bambi!” Eliot shouts back. “I appreciate how respectful you are of our privacy.” 

His cock is still hard against Quentin’s palm. He’s smiling down at him, and Quentin wants to taste him. He sits on the edge of the bath knowing this position is going to get uncomfortable, and not caring. He opens Eliot’s pants, and Eliot’s shoving them down, boxers too, around his knees. It shouldn’t be hot, seeing Eliot like this in the bathroom. Two feet away from the toilet. But somehow, it is. Quentin grips Eliot’s hips, pressing his face into Eliot’s groin. Breathing in the scent of him. His mouth opens automatically, and he slides the head of Eliot’s cock inside. 

It does help. He does feel better.


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is ALSO very ageplay. I hope to have the next one up soon, when we'll be back with Alice and the rest of Team Brakebills.

Quentin’s standing at the window, holding Lamb to his chest. He should be helping Margo and Eliot load up the rental, but instead he’s trying not to have a meltdown. He... Has a lot of feelings about cars, especially long drives. And all of his feelings are really, really stupid. He knows a therapist would tell him not to think like that, and validate his feelings – but they _are_ stupid, because he’s a stupid baby. 

He bites his lip. He should be able to drive. He can’t even help out Margo and Eliot. He’ll just sit in the car being a stupid baby and... 

Cars make him feel scared. There are so many different things coming towards him all at once, and it gives him a shivery feeling in his stomach. He feels dizzy and tired after being in one for even a short time. Sometimes he falls asleep, which opens a door to disaster, because something about the vibrations of being in the car makes him need to pee. If he falls asleep, he pretty much always wakes up wet, which has been uncomfortable and horrible lots of different times. And if he doesn’t fall asleep – well. Then he has a headache and his stomach hurts and sometimes he pees his pants anyway, and he’s awake when it happens, which makes it worse. 

He presses his face into the top of Lamb’s head, watching Eliot put the final suitcase of his clothes into the trunk. There are two more bags of Margo’s stuff on the couch, and Quentin knows he should bring them both down, but he’s frozen. He can go to magic school, run away from magic school, do intense magic with his boyfriend, but he can’t... ride in a car? It’s so... pathetic. His throat feels hot, and he swallows hard. He’s not going to cry. 

He tries to talk himself down. It’s not like Eliot will be mad at him. Margo might wrinkle her nose, but she won’t be mad either. She doesn’t mind that he sleeps in a diaper – Wow, he’s so stupid. Why didn’t he think of it before? He can wear a diaper. 

Quentin turns towards the bedroom, and then pauses, rubbing Lamb against his cheek. They’ll notice, though, won’t they, if he’s in a diaper? And isn’t wearing one when he’s awake much weirder than when he’s asleep? It’s different to have day time accidents. 

“Q, can you pass me those...” Eliot’s in the doorway. He pauses, looking at Q. “Are you OK, baby?” 

Then he’s being folded into Eliot’s arms, his head fitting comfortably against Eliot’s chest. The soothing smell of Eliot’s clothes – cigarettes and wind – fills his nose. It does help. The panic stops in its tracks. Panic can make a different Eliot appear in Q’s head, one that might get mad or think he’s doing the wrong things, but when Eliot’s actually there, it’s different. The panic doesn’t have anything to stick on to. 

“I’m being stupid,” Quentin says, and Eliot rubs his back. He doesn’t tell him he’s not being stupid. He just lets the silence linger, and Quentin sighs through his nose, running his thumb over the hem of Eliot’s silky vest. 

“What is it?” 

Quentin sighs. “Um.” Maybe he can get all the words out at once, and it won’t be so painful. Like ripping off a band-aid. “Sometimes I have accidents in cars. A lot. It’s... I don’t know, I take so many precautions but it happens anyway – and, and I hate it.” He doesn’t pause to breathe, so the next part comes out a little garbled. “Do you think I should wear a diaper?” 

“That sounds like a good idea,” Eliot says smoothly. As though he’s not shocked at all. “Especially if it would make you feel more comfortable.” 

Quentin shuts his eyes. He feels relieved, but also anxious, because the idea of actually doing this is intimidating, as though he’s crossing a line he shouldn’t. 

“Are they in the car already?” 

It takes Quentin a second to understand what Eliot means. “No, they’re in the overnight bag.” 

“Do you want me to help you get changed?” 

“I can do it.” Quentin usually deals with the diapers himself, though sometimes Eliot helps, smoothing cream into his skin for him, or adjusting the tapes. It’s frighteningly intimate, and yet completely practical. Eliot’s hands are firm and steady. 

“Hmm.” Eliot hasn’t let him go. “I know you can, but I think it would be better if I was in charge today. You’re getting yourself all worked up, and I think it’s because you’re forgetting that you’re not a big boy.” 

Eliot’s grip is gentle. Quentin could squirm free, and say, ‘No, not today, I don’t want it.’ 

But he has no desire to do that. He takes a deep breath. “Isn’t that too much work for you? There are a lot of balls in the air.” 

“Not really. We’re just driving.” Eliot squeezes the back of Q’s neck. “Let Daddy worry about it.” 

“I’ll try.” Quentin puts his hand into Eliot’s. Eliot leads him into the bedroom. 

He takes off his shoes again, and works on his pants. His hearth thrums. Eliot unzips the overnight bag that Quentin packed. He laughs: a small, warm sound. “Q, all you’ve brought is pyjamas, two stuffed animals and diapers.” 

“What else would I need?” Quentin chews his finger. 

“I don’t know, isn’t a toothbrush more important than a sloth? Or maybe a clean shirt? We’ll be spending the night in a motel.” 

“I need Barbara in the car,” Quentin says, his voice coming out a little petulant. Maybe it won’t be any trouble to drop into his role as Eliot’s boy: it’s not like he’s making great adult decisions. 

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to discredit Barbara. Lie down, sweetheart.” 

When he’s changed, Eliot passes him the pacifier he’d pushed into the front pocket of the bag, next to his phone. “I can’t have this in the car,” Quentin says. 

“Why not?” 

“People might see.” 

“Who, Margo? I don’t know how to break it to you, Q, but I think she knows.” 

Quentin snorts. “I meant... people.” 

“They’ll see a cute sub in the car. You should pull up your pants.” 

The pants do up over the diaper, but Quentin’s worried it creates an obvious bulge. Eliot seems to find it cute: he pulls him close again and pats his butt. “We’ll take lots of breaks, baby boy. And if you need to be changed, Daddy’s here for you, OK?” 

Quentin nods. His tummy is still turning over. “Are you driving us?” 

“I’ll let you in on a secret.” Eliot smooths back Quentin’s hair. “I can’t drive in the city. Margo’s in charge until we’re on the highway.” 

“I can’t drive at all,” Quentin points out. 

“That’s because you’re a baby. Let’s get you settled in with Barbara and – What’s the gorilla’s name?” 

** 

“What a well-behaved kid we have,” Margo says, when they’re crossing into Jersey. She and Eliot have alternated between fighting over the radio and sniping at each other, but they calmed down once they were out of the heaviest traffic. Quentin’s made a nest between his stuffies. At first he told himself he wasn’t going to use the pacifier, but he broke the resolution after they’d driven approximately a block and a half. It definitely helps. 

He doesn’t feel as scared or wound up as usual, even though it’s the start of a long drive, and that would usually trigger a lot of his anxiety. On top of that, there’s also the fear of knowing that this drive is their final escape, and if the warding spells don’t hold, and the intel Marina gave them isn’t good, they could be in serious trouble. They should be shitting themselves, but it’s probably better that Margo and Eliot focus on bickering, and he sucks his pacifier and tries to forget what he’s feeling. 

“He is a good boy,” Eliot sounds proud. He looks over at Quentin. “How are you doing? Do you need to stop? Or sit up front for a while?” 

Quentin’s OK for now. “Thirsty,” he says after a moment. “Do we have any water?” The pacifier makes his mouth dry. 

“In the bag beside you, sweetie,” Margo says, yawning a little, and twirling the radio dial again. Taylor Swift, news, talk show, Beyoncé. 

Quentin drinks, and then finds that he’s sleepy. He was so wound up last night he didn’t sleep much, and now they’re finally getting away from the city, he’s relaxing bit by bit. The scenery outside begins to hypnotise him, as it always does. He snuggles Lamb to his chest. Sucking the pacifier makes him feel like it’s bedtime too. 

His eyes start to close. He feels Eliot’s hand rubbing his knee, the only place that he can reach from the front seat. “Take a nap. Don’t worry about anything.” 

Easier said than done. 

But Quentin sleeps. 

When he wakes, he’s (predictably) desperate to go to the bathroom, and his neck is stiff, his eyes dry. They’re on the highway somewhere. He sits up, rubbing his face. 

“There’s Sleeping Beauty,” Margo says. She’s still driving, the radio playing softly. 

Quentin’s silent, going over his dilemma: How long can he hold it? Should he just let go? He knows they’d stop if he asked them, but he’s not sure if he can wait until they find a rest stop. He thinks about sitting, waiting, and then having to get out of the car, and then run to the bathroom, and get his pants down in time... It’s a process he’s attempted many times before, and he’s usually failed. At the same time he doesn’t want to just... pee while he’s sitting right here in the back of the rental car, with Margo and Eliot right there... His throat is getting hot again, his eyes wet.   
He wishes he could fall back to sleep. 

He wants to ask Eliot for help, but he’s afraid. Instead he presses his face into the top of Lamb’s head, pretending that it’s just him and Lamb, no one else. Lamb knows all his secrets. Lamb helps him relax a little, and he realises that he’s clenching his jaw painfully, and his hands are balled tight. He tries to breathe a little deeper, and then suddenly he’s peeing, the choice taken away from him by his traitorous biology. He hasn’t peed in a diaper while he’s awake for a long time, and at first it feels strange: the diaper feels impossibly warm, not wet, but really, really warm. His face grows hot, and he feels very small as he holds Lamb, and the wetness seeps on and on. He sobs once, not able to stop himself, a little hiccup of a sob. 

Then Eliot’s leaning back in his seat, and reaching for his hand. “It’s OK, baby. I’m here. I’m not mad.” 

Quentin knows then that Eliot knows what he just did, and that makes him feel extra warm and embarrassed. But Eliot’s hand is comforting, and he can tell by their scent that both of the doms in the car are calm and not upset or angry. It’s probably not the actual end of the world right now. 

He wants to be held, to press his face into Eliot’s neck, nuzzle and nudge at him, and know he’s safe. 

“I’ll stop at the next place,” Margo says. “Your Daddy will help you clean up. Don’t worry about it, kid. Even if you did pee on the seat, it wouldn’t matter. We have magic.” 

Quentin rubs his eyes. He feels a little bit like dying of shame, but... At the same time, he’s glad Margo brought it up. It’s less scary now that it’s out in the open and he doesn’t have to worry about keeping secrets. 

“Margo,” Eliot snaps. 

“What?” 

“It’s OK.” Quentin squeezes Eliot’s hand one last time, and lets go. “Everything she said was true.” 

He feels better, actually, now that he’s wet and he knows being wet isn’t going to make anyone mad. Maybe it’s OK to do what Eliot says, and just be his good boy on this trip. He knows that when they get to the house he can help them and pull his weight, but maybe it’s also true that letting Eliot take care of him helps Eliot as well as helping Quentin. Right now, he wants to cuddle his Daddy, and let his Daddy help him to get clean and dry, and he doesn’t care about anything else. 

**

Margo nestles down in the back seat for the next part of the drive. She rests her head on Barbara, and holds Frodo, the gorilla, in her arms, like he’s a baby. “This is a good nest,” she says. “Nobody talk, or make any noise. Mama needs her beauty sleep.” 

A little later, she’s snoring gently. 

“Will she really notice if we talk?” Quentin whispers to Eliot. 

It’s weirdly hot to watch Eliot drive. He looks so calm and adult as he changes lanes. Quentin’s never seen him drive before and it distracts him from the usual anxiety he feels in the front seat. 

“Nope,” Eliot says. “Once she’s out, she’s out. We can play music. Whatever.” 

“When did you learn to drive?” 

Eliot stares at the road ahead. “On the farm. I think I was fourteen. My dad taught me. He always said my driving contributed to his heart attack.” 

“Oh.” Quentin’s silent for a moment. “I guess I thought Dad would teach me, too. Eventually.” 

Eliot taps the wheel with his finger. “Why didn’t he teach you when you were in school?”

Quentin shrugs. “I was too busy... Being crazy.” 

Eliot looks sideways at him. His lips move. “I could teach you,” he says. 

Quentin imagines it. It’s confusing, because he’s imagining Ted telling him what to do, and simultaneously, Eliot. He bites his lip. Focuses on Eliot: Eliot telling to keep his mind on the road and his hands on the wheel, or whatever it is people say during driving lessons. There’s something so dom about cars, any car, all the power locked inside them, the hand on the wheel controlling it all. It’s not surprising that subs weren’t allowed to drive at first. It’s exactly the kind of power people hate them to have. 

“I think it might be too erotic,” Quentin says, realising his mind has travelled to an image of giving an Eliot a blowjob while El is driving. “I’d rather Margo did it.” 

“God. You’re braver than me. Margo would be terrifying.” 

Margo is still holding Frodo in her arms. Her eyeliner is smudged. Quentin knows she can be tough. But she’s also a patient teacher, as long as her pupil is trying hard. 

“El...” Quentin stops. “I wanted to thank you.” 

“For what, baby?” 

“For uh... Not making a big deal about the diapers. Not making me feel stupid for worrying, either. I hope, at some point, you’ll want to fuck me again.” Quentin’s tongue feels thick in his mouth. He stops talking. He’s wearing a diaper right now, and suddenly it feels too hot and constricting, and he wants to take it off and never wear one again. At the same time, he’s aware of how much calmer he’s been this whole drive, and how grateful he’ll be in a couple of hours to be wearing protection.

Eliot glances back at Margo. “Do you think she’d kill me if I smoked in here?” A pause. “She would, she definitely would.” He takes a hand off the wheel so he can put it on Quentin’s thigh. “OK, working backwards. I don’t find the diaper especially erotic, darling, but I do want to have sex with you almost all the time, so I imagine it will take me approximately ten minutes to get hot for you again once we take it off.” 

“You sure?” 

“Yes.” Eliot squeezes his thigh again, and lets go. “Next, I don’t find it sexy, but with you I’ve learned sexual is not the only kind of... pleasure I’m looking for. I’m not sure how to describe it, but when you’re wearing them, I feel like I’m taking care of you, and that makes me feel good. And you know you’re not the only sub who has these problems. They make products for this. They advertise them on TV, for god’s sake. It’s OK to need them. It’s not weird. Anything that makes you feel better is good.” 

“Yeah.” Quentin feels a weight on his chest. He’s comforted by El, he feels loved and appreciated, and sometimes all of that is too much. He doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve it. He’s been ashamed of himself for so long, feeling like he’s both too fucked up and too needy to be a good submissive, and unable to act like he doesn’t have needs, the way Penny and Alice do. His biology always betrays him, and his mind won’t leave him alone. He’s always walking along a wire, afraid to fall into some kind of abyss. 

“What did I say? You’re being very quiet.” 

“You said all the right stuff, El. I feel better.” Quentin strokes Eliot’s shoulder, gently, feeling the softness of his shirt. He wants to snuggle up against him, tuck his face into Eliot’s neck. It’s hard to hold himself back. “Sometimes I don’t know if I deserve it.” 

“I know what you mean.” Eliot sighs. “It’s hard to feel like I deserve you, too. I’m such a mess.” 

“You’re very good at taking care of me.” Eliot often says that he’s a mess, and Quentin’s never sure exactly what he means. He knows things can be hard for him, but Eliot’s so put together, at least most of the time. 

“We’re both pretty fucked up, but we’re good for each other. And we’ll have some time in the country to figure out how to tell with all our shit.” Eliot’s mouth thins. “God, I hate the country. Fuck it, I’m going to smoke.” 

“This is a rental,” Quentin complains. “Margo honestly will kill you.”

“I’ll teach you Jedrowski’s Sixth. Really good for cleaning the air. What’s magic for?” Eliot takes the packet of smokes from his jacket pocket. “Light it for me, sweetie?” 

“Then I’m complicit.” Quentin takes the cigarette but doesn’t light it. 

“God, you’re so well-behaved,” Eliot says, with a note of complaint in his voice. 

“That’s what you like about me.” Quentin smiles a little, lighting the cigarette with one quick tut. “Why can’t you just use a pacifier like a normal person?” 

Eliot snorts, taking the smoke from him. “That’s actually a good point.” 

**

A day later, they’re lost somewhere within five miles of their new house. Eliot turns down another road that leads only to a farmhouse, and then turns onto another road that seems to lead approximately nowhere between two fields leached of colour by a cloudy sky. “I told you this wasn’t the way,” Margo snaps. 

Eliot grumbles under his breath, and Quentin, in the back, keeps his eyes on the window. The air crackles with tension, and being in a small space with two unhappy doms makes Quentin’s stomach clench. His mouth is dry and his head hurts: even the pale light outside feels like too much. 

He’s holding the sheet of hand-written instructions that have found their way to them via Alice’s aunt. The paper is crinkled at the edges, and covered in spidery hand-writing: it looks old, so old it makes Quentin suspicious as to whether the house actually exists at all. 

“What does the mailbox say again?” Eliot asks. 

“Mariner,” Margo says. “We’ve only checked fifteen thousand times.” 

“It’s right after a sign for fresh eggs,” Quentin says, looking at the instructions again and wondering if they’re in code. 

“That’s what I thought,” Eliot says, “Look up ahead.” 

And there it is, appearing on the other side of a maple, on this road that seems to lead nowhere: a sign for eggs, and a mailbox reading Mariner. Eliot stops at the gate, looking up towards a large, white-painted house, surrounded by free-ranging chickens. 

There’s silence, aside from the engine cooling off, and Margo’s beginning to say, “Well, why are we just sitting here?” when the door opens, and a middle-aged man walks down to the gate. 

“Are you looking for the Quinn place?” he asks. “Welcome, welcome. I’ll show you the rest of the way.” 

Eliot and Margo get out of the car, quickly falling into conversation with the man. After a moment, Quentin opens his door too, glad to stretch his legs a little. He feels anxious, embarrassed that his shirt has a stain on the front, and worried that the diaper he’s wearing is obvious. He bites his lip, breathing in a rural smell of manure and chickens. 

“Oh, you did bring a sub,” the man says, smiling. “I thought it was just you two.” 

He reaches out for Quentin’s hand, and for a second Quentin wants to back away, and then he realises that the man is also a sub – sometimes it’s easy to tell, from a scent, or the way someone stands – and that he’s not patronising Quentin, but greeting him gladly as an equal. 

“Sam,” he introduces himself, squeezing Quentin’s hand. “I’ve left a few groceries in your place: some of my eggs, and a loaf of sourdough I made this morning. Plus some milk. You should be able to make them coffee, but you’ll need to go to the store before it closes.” He lets go of Quentin’s hand, looking him up and down carefully. Quentin realises he hasn’t replied, and swallows hard, remembering to nod. 

“There’s a little group for us, we meet in the church hall on Wednesdays at 6. Strictly no tops allowed, we need a place to complain about them.” He winks at Eliot as he says this, smiling. “You’d be very welcome. Call on me if you need anything.” 

Quentin nods, trying to talk it all in. It’s not the first time he’s had a sub speak to him like this: like they’re in a secret society together, and that they exist to take care of, and simultaneously be exasperated by, their tops. It’s rare for another sub to talk to him like this, though, probably because he’s been ill for so long, and no one’s taken him seriously as anything other than a depressed teenager. He feels a little flustered and a little flattered. 

“I’m sure you’ll want to get settled in,” Sam says. “The key is under the stone frog. It’s two miles further down the road: you can’t miss it.” 

“Thank you.” Quentin moves towards the car, and then remembers to introduce himself. 

“It’s OK, Q, we already told Sam your name,” Eliot says, gently pushing him towards the car door. 

They settle back into their seats. Quentin gives Lamb a reassuring squeeze. “Well, he liked you, anyway,” Margo says. 

“He thinks I need a safe space to complain about you,” Quentin explains. 

“Oh.” Margo yawns. “Do you?” 

“No.” 

“You should make friends,” Eliot says. “Couldn’t hurt.” 

“With rural subs who are my dad’s age?” Quentin rolls his eyes. 

“Well, we’ve only just got here. You might need to complain about us one day: you don’t know yet.” 

“I’ll just complain to Margo about you,” Quentin says. He doesn’t say that, from what Ted has told him, those groups are usually fifty percent subs exchanging recipe ideas, and fifty percent discussing how to cope with the emotional abuse tops put them through. It sounds pretty stressful.

“Look, that must be it,” Margo is saying. Quentin gets out of the car to open the gate for them and allow Eliot to drive in. That means he’s the one to locate the stone frog, and pick up the key. He looks again at the scruffy piece of paper: there’s a clue here to unlock the wards on the house, and he stares at it, concentrating. It takes him only a moment to remember the words they’d discussed earlier, and he raises his hand in a simple tut. Something within the house opens to him: the magic in here feels earthy, simple but strong. He can feel it at his fingertips, the way they said he should in Brakebills, but which he was never able to. It feels welcoming. 

The hall smells a little stale, but it’s clean, the walls white, decorated with framed posters from old movies. A staircase opens off the hall, as well as the kitchen and living room. It’s quiet here. It’s nice. 

Suddenly, Eliot’s behind him, his hand on Quentin’s shoulder. “Wow,” he’s saying. “This place has beautiful bones. I wonder if anyone would mind if we redecorated a little?”


	34. Chapter 34

Though she’s been using magic to clean herself up, Julia is still longing for a shower. She makes her way to her dorm as soon as she’s back in Brakebills South, pausing only to crumple up the horrible white uniform and grab her robe. But when she’s in the bathroom, she pauses. The last time she washed here, she’d never been a seal or a goose. She’d never known what it meant to give up her form. She’d never pushed herself to the edge of being, giving her identity over to magic. She’d also never shared a bed with three other people night after night; she’d never fucked Penny, or held Alice all night, or kissed Kady’s throat. The memories linger on Julia’s skin, in her hair, the whirls of her palms, the creases of her knees. She can smell her lovers on her body: and she can smell snow, and magic. 

In the mirror, she’s hollow-eyed, and she’s lost pounds she could ill-afford. She looks like she’s recovering from an illness. Her armpits and legs are downy with hair she had never allowed to grow before, and there’s some kind of fungus on one of her toes. She should feel unhappy with her body, but instead she feels powerful. 

The shower, though, is heavenly. 

Dry, most of the tangles removed from her hair, she puts on her own clothes, and draws the symbols Margo taught her onto the floor. This spell should allow her to talk privately to Quentin, no matter where he might be. 

The magic hums through her. She can feel what she’s doing now, much more easily than she could before she attended Brakebills South. The patterns unwind before her eyes, the numbers creating a complex geometry of power and light. 

Quentin’s reading. He startles all over when he sees her. Then, he throws himself towards, arms open, only to fall forward, right through her. 

“Jules!” he says. He stands up, rubs his cheek. “I guess falling over was inevitable.” 

He reaches towards her again and – God, she wishes she could touch him. But he – he looks good. He’s face looks less hollow than the last time she saw him, and there’s something about the way he holds himself that’s more relaxed. He seems a little less like he’s trying to make his whole body vanish. 

“Q,” she says. There aren’t any words to convey what she wants to say. “I’m... back.” 

“Are you OK? You look – you look –” He pauses, uncertain, running fingers through his hair. 

“I look exhausted. But I’m good, honey, I really am. I’ve been worried about you.” 

Quentin leans forward again, as though persistence will make it possible for him to touch her. He’s so tactile: she longs to feel him nuzzle into her neck, or to hold him in her arms. She can only smell herself – coconut shampoo, almond body butter – and that feels so wrong. She longs for Quentin’s familiar scent. It would give her, more than anything, the feeling of coming home. 

“I’ve got so much to tell you,” Quentin says. “I don’t know – where to start. We’re here. We’re safe. We – I miss you.” 

“I miss you too.” 

“Was it...? Was it really OK?” Quentin’s biting his lip. 

Julia isn’t sure how to answer. No, it wasn’t OK. It was brutal: it was degrading, exhausting, destructive. But it made her feel alive in ways she never felt before. She’s proud of herself, and proud of her lovers. “Yeah,” she says. “It was a lot, Q. I think it’s good you didn’t come. But we – survived. We learnt a lot.” 

“We?” Quentin says, head tilted. “You and Alice?” 

Julia nods. There hadn’t been any deaths in Brakebills South this year, which was, horrifically, unusual. It was mostly thanks to Alice. She swallows, trying to figure out what to say. “We’re all OK, everyone who went. And – we – we all slept together, Alice and Kady and Penny and me. I kind of... I feel good with them.” 

She’s not sure how Quentin will take this. Their relationship has always been complicated, and they’ve both been jealous of each other’s partners in the past. But Quentin merely looks thoughtful, and then says, “And Alice is OK with it?” 

“Alice is amazing, Q. She got us all through Brakebills South.” 

Quentin nods, repositioning himself to sit on the couch with his knees drawn up to his chest. “I’m really glad she has you.” Then his nose wrinkles. “Wait, did you sleep with Penny? Like, like – did you kiss him?” 

Julia laughs. “Yeah, of course I kissed him. What do you think I’d do, say I don’t kiss on the mouth?” 

“I don’t know. That’s kind of gross. Kissing Penny.” His brow is creased. 

Julia really wants to poke him in the arm. “Hey. He’s a good boy, really.” 

“Is he?” Quentin rolls his eyes. “Are you sure you don’t just want Alice and Kady?” 

“Yes, I’m sure.” 

“But they’re both cute and scary. That’s your type. What do you need Penny for?” 

“Don’t be a brat. He’s very sweet.” 

“I think the South Pole made you go crazy. That’s understandable.” Quentin’s eyes are shining with laughter. He really is OK, Julia realises. She’s so glad. 

“OK, changing the subject. We actually get a vacation from Brakebills soon. Do you think we can come and see you?” 

**

Alice showers too, and then sits on her bed, looking at a long-overdue library book. It’s nice to simply hold a book again: it’s been so long. She lifts her wrist to her nose, and misses the scent of Julia on her skin. 

The next thing she knows, the room is dark, and someone is gently knocking on her door. She sits up, rubbing her face. Her stomach growls. God, she can go to the cafeteria and eat actual fresh fruit and ice cream. She won’t have to survive on seal blubber and fish brains, while trying to hide from a crazy Russian. 

Heaven. 

“Penny.” She’s surprised to see him. She thought he might hole up somewhere with weed and loud music and ignore them for a few weeks. 

He’s standing a little awkwardly in her doorway, posture slumped. 

“Do you...” He pauses, looking at his feet. “Fuck. I – I missed our nest.” 

Alice thinks how brave he is, for saying that. She’s barely admitted to herself that she misses the warm hollow their four bodies had shared, made of blankets and pillows, in the cold centre of the South Pole.

“We can make another one,” she suggests. 

Penny is quiet. “Yeah, but... Do you think they’ll want to?” 

Alice never thought she was good at reading people, but the way he’s standing is familiar to her now. She’s felt like that too: as though she’s at a precipice and she needs someone to hold her or she’ll fall. She remembers crawling into Kady’s bed, all those months ago, desperate to be held. 

“Come here,” she says now, patting the bed beside her. 

He’s frozen for a moment, as though he can’t decide what to do. And then he takes a careful step towards the bed, and the next moment they’re curling up around each other. Alice didn’t realise how alone she was feeling, either: she’s nuzzling at his neck and armpits, relieved to smell his scent once more, and his arms on her back and sides soothe her in a way she didn’t know she needed to be soothed. Penny’s burrowing in against her too, settling the blankets around them, building a tiny nest out of sheets and bedding. Alice feels very small in a way she never felt in the South Pole: as though they are two tiny creatures in a vast wilderness. 

“This is kinda gay,” Penny says against her ear. “Sub on sub action.” 

Alice laughs. She can’t help it. “All health guidelines say that this is a very natural expression of our needs. Be respectful.” 

“You know Kady likes it when we make out. She gets really hot thinking about two little subs together.” 

“Shut up, Penny.” Alice hooks her arm around his waist. 

“Do you think Julia would like me to make out with Quentin?” 

Alice works her fingers between his shirt and pants, finding a strip of soft skin. She tickles. “What would Eliot think?” 

Penny wriggles away from her fingers. “You can tell that guy is majorly kinky. All those layers he wears, all buttoned up. That always means they’re hiding some weird shit.” 

“I don’t think it does. You have it all hanging out, and you’re pretty weird.” Alice settles her nose against Penny’s throat. Her body is relaxing against his. “Kady still wants you, you know. You don’t need to worry.” 

“I think I’m dropping, a little.” Penny’s voice is raw. “I’d usually just drink my way through it. But now...” 

“I’ll get Kady for you.” 

“No.” Penny grips her waist. “Please, just... Stay here? For a little while?” 

“Sure.” 

She’s still hungry, but she can wait. She feels the warmth of Penny’s body seep into her limbs. It’s been so long she was properly warm. And so long since she was able to rest and not worry about what challenge she’ll be faced with next. 

Her door creaks open again. “Do you want to...?” Kady begins, and then stops. Alice hears her footsteps on the way to the bed, and Kady twitches the covers up. A slow grin as she says, “Well don’t you two look darling.” 

“Alice was lonely. You should take better care of her,” Penny says. 

Alice kicks him, and he makes a startled and scandalised sound that, for a second, reminds Alice powerfully of kicking Charlie in the ankles when she was a kid. 

“I see.” Kady sits down beside Penny, and settles her hand on his hip. She exerts enough pressure to roll him over onto his back, so he’s looking up at her. He glares. 

“Well, someone was lonely,” Kady says. She puts her hand on Penny’s jaw, thumb settling on his throat, just above his Adam’s Apple. “But I’m not sure it was Alice, pumpkin.” 

“Don’t call me –” Penny begins, but Kady squeezes his throat, just a little, and Penny stills. 

“Hey, Alice,” Kady says, eyes settling on her, as her finger strokes Penny’s jaw. “You hungry? I was going to suggest we go to the cafeteria, because even that food sounds pretty exciting right now.” 

“Yeah, I can’t stop thinking about grapes,” Alice says. She’s breathing in the scent of Penny’s excitement and Kady’s arousal, and it makes her stomach flutter, her throat tighten. 

“Me too. Plan for the evening: we find Julia; we eat; we tie Penny up.” 

Alice always likes to know there’s a plan. “Good idea,” she says. 

**

They end up in Penny’s room, because he has the biggest bed. “The admin office definitely thought you were the first-year most likely to be involved in a fourway,” Kady says, as she smooths out the blanket. 

“No they didn’t – they put Coldwater in here with me.” His lip curls. “Wait, did they expect me to nest with Coldwater?” 

“They just think all subs are sluts,” Alice says. She’s still thinking about the vanilla ice cream and canned peaches she just ate: not the world’s most exciting dish, but pretty much perfect after Brakebills South. 

“You’re taking part in the fourway too, kid,” Kady says. “You can’t judge.”

“I’m just saying tops think we spend our whole lives drooling over them,” Alice says. “They never believe we might have better things to do.” 

“Do you have better things to do, though?” Penny asks. “’Cause like Kady said, you are here too.” 

“I know, but I’ll make up for the missed study time tomorrow.” Alice takes off her glasses and carefully positions them on Penny’s night-stand. “Anyway, at least you got assigned a room, Penny. They didn’t even want me here.” 

“Of course they didn’t: you’re troublemaker,” Kady says. 

Alice opens her mouth to protest but. She kind of gets it. She has been a troublemaker. She didn’t let anyone at all die in Brakebills South. 

“Your face!” She hears Julia’s familiar laugh. Julia has been watching them from the doorway, but now she joins Alice by the bed. Her fingers settle in Alice’s hair as she kisses her. “God,” she says. “You’re so cute, and so perfect. It’s too much.” 

Alice feels her face grow warm. She ducks her head into Julia’s shoulder, a spot that feels safe and familiar. “No, I’m not.” 

“Penny, while they’re being nauseating, you take your pants off and lie on the bed.” Kady’s already taken his shirt off, and is undressing too. 

Penny does as he’s told, stretching out on the blanket. It’s nice to be somewhere that’s so warm they can take their time. Yesterday, they were fumbling in the cold, desperate just to heat each other up enough to be comfortable. 

“Do you want physical restraints, or do you want to be held down by magic?” Kady asks. 

“Magic.” Penny’s usual slow grin is replaced by a look of urgency. His eyes are locked on Kady’s face. “Magic. It’s quicker.” 

“Good. Hands behind your head, legs spread.” Her hands move in quick tuts: Alice can make out Popper’s 28, and a variation of Vanderberg’s paralysis, but she doesn’t know them all. She’s carefully filing them for future study even as she’s admiring the way Penny’s chest is exposed, and the broad stretch of his legs. 

“How’s it feel? This won’t ever give you problems with circulation, but you can strain a muscle.” 

“I’m not going to,” Penny says. 

“Because you think straining a muscle is for sissies?” Kady climbs onto the bed, straddling him. “Or because it actually doesn’t hurt?” 

He says something Alice doesn’t hear, but Kady laughs and pulls his hair. Meanwhile, Julia is kissing her, undoing the buttons of her blouse, her fingers tickling the soft skin above Alice’s waistband. Alice didn’t ever think she’d want to have sex this often: that she could do it day after day and not get completely sick of it. Instead, she’s opening her mouth like the dumbest sub in every romantic movie, and sucking on Julia’s lower lip, and her stomach is fluttering, her vulva growing wet, her skin hot. 

It’s nice to be so warm. She’s tugging Julia closer, closer, as Julia’s deft fingers remove her bra, and she cups Alice’s breasts. 

Alice hears a soft sound: skin on skin. Julia pauses, watching as Kady traces a crop over Penny’s pecs, and down, along his abdomen. Penny’s lips are parted and his pupils blown: he’s gazing at Kady like she’s the only thing in the whole world. 

Alice hears Julia’s sharp indrawn breath as Kady brings the crop down with a _thwap_ on Penny’s thigh. Penny doesn’t gasp but his eyes are fixed on Kady. His face is open: full of affection and wanting. 

Julia’s biting her lower lip, face hungry. “I want you to do that to me,” Alice says, and her voice comes out louder than she expected: clear and demanding in the hushed room. 

They all look at her, and she wants to hide her face from them, to bury herself in Julia’s chest again. 

“You don’t have to,” Penny says. His voice is gentle. “Just because I am.” 

They’re all so _careful_ with her: guiding her, coaxing her. Like she might spook. Don’t they know how hungry she is? They’ve woken something up inside her, a wild thing, and she needs them to understand. She needs their hands, their mouths. She needs to be bitten, to be held down. She needs them to see her as she is: strong and yielding at the same time. They can hurt her, and she won’t break. 

“I’m not a baby!” she snaps, which makes her sound like a baby. 

Julia raises her eyebrows. “We know.” 

“So you can... do stuff to me. I know you’re – you’re trying to protect me, but I don’t want you to! I need you to...” She can’t find the words. Her chest heaves, chin trembling. It’s so embarrassing, needing them like this. 

Julia smooths back the hair from Alice’s face. Her hand settles by Alice’s ear, thumb stroking her jaw. “I know, sweetheart. I know you need us.” She glances at Kady. “We’ll take care of you, won’t we?”

She and Kady share a look: some kind of private, unspoken dom conversation. Penny squirms a little against his invisible bonds, and Alice suddenly feels bad. Penny needs their attention right now, and she doesn’t, not really. She’s OK. 

No. She’s not. If they don’t touch her, she might – she might _scream._

She feels like she really might, but now Julia’s talking to her, and her voice is firm and calm. It helps. “OK. You have options. We stay here, and you lie down next to Penny, and we take care of both of you. Or I take you up to my room, I spank your butt, and I put you to bed, and Kady and I will give you our full attention tomorrow. What do you think?”

Alice bites her lip. “What does Penny want?” 

She’s still holding Julia’s hand, but she looks at Penny. He’s naked, legs spread, cock half-hard: vulnerable. She wants him to tell her to stay: but above all, she wants him to be honest. His eyes meet hers. Maybe they have their own secret sub conversation: she’s not sure. She doesn’t catch any nuances, but she feels Penny’s affection. 

The room is quiet. Breathless. 

Penny swallows. “Stay.” 

“OK,” Julia says, voice tickling Alice’s ear. She squeezes Alice’s hand. “Tell me to stop, and I will.” Then she pushes Alice away from her, a gentle thrust. “Clothes off, on your stomach on the bed. Don’t touch Penny.” 

Alice removes her skirt and tights, carefully rolling the tights and tucking them into her shoe. She doesn’t feel weird being naked around them any more, not the way she used to, but she feels a surge of self-consciousness as she lies beside Penny. 

It passes when she presses her nose into the pillow. The dark is familiar, and smells like her people. The bed is big enough that she can lie beside Penny without touching him at all, but she’s aware of him, and she feels the mattress shift as Kady settles between them. 

Then: silence. The darkness behind her eyelids. Followed by the _hmm-thwap_ of the crop, and the soft, answering catch in Penny’s breath. She hears Kady praise him. Then silence, and again: the crop, the moan. Where’s Julia? Why is she lying here like this? It’s stupid: it’s the dumb stuff they always do to subs. Testing their obedience for no reason. 

“Easy,” Julia says, like she can read Alice’s mind. Julia strokes her hair, and her cool fingers trace down Alice’s spine. Alice shivers. “Tell me what you want, sweetheart.” 

Isn’t Julia supposed to tell her? Isn’t that the point? Alice feels her heart thrumming in her throat. Like she might choke. She wants – she doesn’t know. More. 

“L-like when you’re running. And you run so much it hurts. I want that,” Alice says. 

Julia’s fingers tangle in her hair, pulling her head back a little. It stings. “What do you imagine?” 

“I don’t know! It’s hard to say it.” 

Penny snorts. “That’s the point.” 

“Don’t be a brat,” Kady snaps at him. Alice doesn’t hear the crop, but Penny bites off a low moan. 

“Hit me,” Alice says. “M-make marks on my back. Make me – make me –” Her throat is closing up. “Make me know that I’m yours. Y-you promised you would.” 

“Oh sweetheart.” She feels Julia, suddenly: Julia’s on top of her, her whole weight pressing along the length of Alice’s spine. “Are you mine?” 

“Yes,” Alice snaps. It takes her a moment to realise she hasn’t said it before to Julia. “Yes! Of course I’m yours. Please, Julia.” 

Julia rocks against her: the lithe heat of her body spread over Alice. “Gladly.” She touches a kiss to the base of Alice’s neck, and then she bites: a sweet, sharp suck of teeth that makes Alice hiss with pleasure and desire. Her vulva clenches, hot and wanting. “You are mine, little Alice.” 

Then Julia sits up, and rakes her nails down Alice’s spine. Alice can imagine the red lines she’s leaving behind, the bright marks threading over her white skin. _More_ , Alice thinks. _More. More._

_More._


	35. Chapter 35

Eliot finds Quentin hiding on the window seat, the drapes drawn in front of him. He gives himself away because Eliot can hear the very soft sound of him sucking his pacifier. 

Quentin only feels the need to hide when he’s upset, so Eliot approaches cautiously. “I know you’re in here, sweetheart.” 

“Mm.” Quentin twitches the curtain so he can look out at Eliot. 

“Can I sit with you?” 

Quentin nods, and Eliot joins him on the window seat. He has too much leg to be completely comfortable, but it’s worth it for the way Quentin leans into him, settling his knees in Eliot’s lap. Outside, it’s completely dark, and Eliot can only see the reflections of their faces. 

“It’s cosy,” Eliot says. 

“There were a lot of gaps between the glass and the window frame.” Quentin carefully takes out the pacifier to speak. “I cast some mending spells.” 

Eliot runs his finger over the frame. He can feel the spells, deep in the wood. The work is seamless: almost as if the wood had never warped with age. “Wow. Very good, baby.” 

Quentin shrugs, sliding his pacifier back into his mouth. Snuggled up like this, he looks very small, and Eliot’s chest twists with protectiveness. He gives in to the urge to pull him closer: Quentin acquiesces at once, settling into Eliot’s arms, resting his head against Eliot’s shoulder. Eliot presses little kisses onto his forehead and nose. 

“So,” Eliot says at last, resting his chin on the top of Quentin’s head. “Are you upset about something? Anxious? Does it have anything to do with our guests arriving tomorrow?” 

“Why would I be nervous about that?” Quentin says, voice flat. 

“You tell me.” 

Quentin doesn’t reply: instead, he chews his lip, not looking at Eliot. 

“I feel kind of nervous,” Eliot says. “It’s been so long since we had guests. I worry that we aren’t house-broken any more. What if I don’t do everything perfectly? What if no one likes my cooking? What if they hate the bedrooms? Or what if I fight with Julia, and you take her side, and you want to move out?” 

“Wow,” Quentin tilts his head up, hair falling away from his eyes. “Are you really thinking about all that?” 

“Yes. I even changed the pillows in Margo’s room, in case Kady doesn’t like sleeping on ones that belonged to another dom. And then I took off the pink sheets and put on grey ones, because grey is a more soothing colour.” 

Quentin squeezes Eliot’s hand, running his thumb over Eliot’s rings. “I’m sorry I was too busy having my breakdown to help you out with yours.” 

“It’s understandable.” Eliot shifts his legs into a slightly more comfortable position. He hopes they can move to the bed soon. “Now tell me what you’re worried about.” 

A long pause. Quentin’s voice comes out a little strangled. “That they’ll regret all the work they put in trying to save me. That they’ll think I’m not worth it.” He swallows. “And less big stuff like... Penny will find out about the diapers, and make fun of me. Kady will fight with Margo. That you’ll be uncomfortable and Margo will be bored, and we’ll all regret we invited them.” 

Eliot snorts. “Yeah, I worry about that last one too. I’m starting to think I never need anyone except for you and Bambi.” He nuzzles the top of Quentin’s head: sub-smell, mixed with shampoo. “Will it help if I say that no one could regret helping you?” 

“Not even Penny?” 

“Are you really worried about that little brat? Because we can uninvite him. It’s not too late.” 

Quentin squirms. “Julia likes him.” 

“No one’s allowed to make you feel uncomfortable in your own home, baby.” 

“Then we’ll never see anyone again, because seeing literally any human makes my stomach hurt.” 

“God.” Eliot leans back against the cold glass. “I know what you mean.” 

“I thought you were good at people.” 

“I don’t know.” He wiggles his hand between Quentin’s t-shirt and his skin. His stomach is warm against Eliot’s hand: soft, comforting. “Sometimes they’re more trouble than they’re worth.” 

“You’ll probably have fun once they get here.” 

“That’s what I was going to tell you,” Eliot says. 

Quentin groans. “I probably will have fun too. At least with Julia.” 

“Julia is the scariest one.” 

That makes Quentin snort a laugh. He places his hand over Eliot’s. “Maybe we should have sex, just to calm you down.” 

“Hmm.” Eliot puts his other arm around Quentin, too. “Do you want to?” 

Quentin nods, turning to kiss Eliot’s chin. He’s wearing pyjama pants and an old t-shirt, hair unbrushed but clean, his face rough with yesterday’s stubble. Eliot wants him: not with the yearning he feels sometimes, but with a familiar, smouldering need. He wants Quentin against him, under him: to contain him, to taste the skin at his neck and throat, to hear the familiar noises of Quentin’s need. 

“Me too,” Eliot says. “If only so we can sit somewhere more comfortable.” 

Quentin squirms off his lap, and paces the few steps to the bed. He places the pacifier on the night-stand, and takes Lamb and the sloth off the pillow and deposits them on the floor. Then he sits, cross-legged and still fully dressed, in the centre of the bed. “OK, I’m ready.” 

Eliot eyes him. He looks tired, a little restless, but he’s lost the hollow look he had the whole time in Brakebills. His clothes are rumpled, his feet bare, and Eliot wants to tug him into his arms and just – _lick_ him. 

No – that’s not it. What _does_ he want? 

To contain Quentin, to climb on top of him, bracket his arms on either side of him. To slide Q into his ass, to feel that little dick pulsing inside him, and to listen as Quentin unravels, becoming desperate, blissed-out, and held. 

“No, you’re not,” Eliot says. He’s undoing his shirt, slow, button by button. 

Quentin reaches up to tug his own t-shirt off. “No. Stay still.” Eliot takes a step closer to him. “Daddy’s in charge now. Daddy will get you ready.” 

Sometimes, Eliot feels silly when he calls himself Daddy. Like he’s acting out a porn scene and he’s not doing it well. Sometimes it’s as natural as breathing. Today, he’s not sure, he’s teetering on the edge of confidence and shame, but the way Quentin stills as once, hands dropping to his sides, reassures him. Quentin’s eyes are wide and trusting. 

Eliot kneels on the bed in front of him, and kisses him. He’s naked now, his cock still soft, and Quentin’s t-shirt sticks to his chest. Quentin’s mouth yields and opens, and Eliot slides his tongue inside, tasting him, slow and careful. It’s nice to be thorough, to take his time. Quentin moans softly, low in his throat, and Eliot twists his fingers in his long hair. 

When he sits back on his heels, he can see that Quentin is flushed, his lips red. “Good boy,” Eliot says, fond. “Arms up.” 

Quentin looks confused for a second, and then does as he’s told. Eliot takes his shirt off for him. The pyjama pants are easy: they practically fall off Quentin’s ass. Quentin is hard, tip of his dick already slick. God, it takes so little to rile him up. 

“Lie on your back,” Eliot instructs. “Fold your arms behind your head. Like that: good.” 

Quentin’s lips open, but he doesn’t ask questions. He wriggles a little, settling into place. 

“Do you want to know what I’m going to do?” 

“Yes,” Quentin says. A breath. “Daddy. Yes, Daddy.” 

Eliot’s stomach clenches. “Nothing complicated. All you need to do is lie there. Daddy’s going to put your cock –” He pauses, trying to keep track of pronouns. “I’m going to ride your dick. OK?” 

Quentin nods. Then – “Can I suck you first?” 

God, it’s a rush, to see this sub looking at him like that, his eyes on Eliot’s cock like it’s everything he wants. It’s not like Eliot can say no to that request – that would be ridiculous. He ends up straddling Quentin’s chest, bracing himself against the headboard, so he can thrust the tip of his cock into Quentin’s mouth. It’s not a position he’s tried before – and not one that’s easy to maintain – but it’s worth it for the complete control he has over when Quentin gets to touch his dick, and the desperate, yearning way Quentin kitten-licks his cock-head, and the way his mouth opens to swallow as much of Eliot’s cock as he can. 

Eliot’s panting, sweating, and rock-hard, after very little of this. He pauses, stomach tense, arms quivering from holding up his own weight. “Daddy,” Quentin says, not so much a plea as an acknowledgement. Eliot lowers himself, straddling Quentin’s thighs. Quentin’s hands are still behind his head, fingers white around one another. 

Eliot palms Quentin’s cock, the hot handful of it jerking at his touch. He’s lazy enough to perform a tut that slickens Quentin’s dick, rather than looking for lube. Quentin shivers at the feeling, his cock bouncing, and Eliot smiles. “Feel good, baby?” 

“Fuck me,” Quentin murmurs, and Eliot thinks – yes. Yes, always. 

He positions the tip of Quentin’s dick at his hole, and there’s a moment where this is – complicated, a moment when it seems that Quentin’s not going to fit inside him, and there’s a wrongness in the way their bodies are lined up and then – then the moment passes as it always does. Oh, he sheaths Quentin so easily, his body opening up around Quentin’s dick. He leans forward, bracketing Quentin with his arms. Quentin presses his face into the crook of Eliot’s neck, his hips stuttering, a tiny whimper coming from his throat. 

“Drop your arms,” Eliot says, voice husky. “W-wrap them around me, baby boy.” 

Then Quentin’s clinging to him, arms around Eliot’s shoulders, as Eliot fucks himself on Quentin’s dick. They couldn’t be closer, wrapped skin to skin, a mingling of body and breath, and as always Eliot _feels_ more than he thinks he can stand, and at the same time it’s exactly right. It’s perfect. 

**

Eliot thinks about going to sleep, but he realises it’s only 8.45, and if he lets himself drift off now he’ll be up at 5am with a lingering feeling that he has cows to feed. He gently rouses Quentin, who is drooling a tiny bit on his chest. “’M not asleep.” 

“Of course not,” Eliot says. “Just resting your eyes.” 

Quentin hooks his leg over Eliot’s thigh, nestling deeper against Eliot’s side. Which is. Not conducive to Eliot’s plan that they wake up. 

He smooths back Quentin’s hair. “We need to wash up. And you need to take your meds.” 

“Debatable.” 

Eliot tugs his hair instead. Quentin squints up at him, frowning. “Come on. You’re not allowed to sleep in my bed if you’re all sticky.” 

“You’re the meanest Daddy in the world.” Quentin’s tongue pokes out. 

Eliot snorts. “Nope, that’s Margo.” 

He jostles Quentin, rearranging them so they’re propped up against the pillows, Quentin leaning into Eliot’s chest. Quentin continues to frown at him, but he’s semi-awake now. 

“You know, when the others are here...” Eliot pauses, hand settling on the back of Quentin’s neck. Sometimes he feels so protective of Quentin it almost hurts. He just wants to pull him close – closer – never let anything happen to him. 

“Mm?” Quentin stretches around Eliot, nearly falling on the floor as he attempt to grab Lamb and Barbara. He settles back against Eliot, tucking them against his chest. God, he’s so cute. 

“You don’t have to be big, you know that, don’t you, sweetheart?” 

Quentin’s forehead creases. “’M gonna have to wear the diaper. Especially since we’re sharing with Margo.” 

“Not just that.” Eliot rubs the back of Quentin’s neck. There are pacifiers scattered around the house now, at least one in each room, so Quentin can grab one any time he needs it. There are plush toys hanging out on all the soft surfaces. Earlier that day Eliot thought about picking everything up and hiding it in their room, but he couldn’t do it. This is Quentin’s house, and there’s no reason he should hide. This is his safe place. “If you need your paci, you get it, OK? If you need to cuddle with me, or if you need reassurance, or if you want to kneel for me, or Margo, or – or Julia, you do it, baby. You don’t have to hide. I don’t want you to be lonely or anxious just because you think you have to pretend not to be yourself.” 

Quentin squirms. A flush is spreading up his neck. “But, what if...” 

“What, darling?” 

“What if they don’t think I deserve it? I don’t have any – any reason to need all this care, El. I don’t.”

At that, Eliot’s chest aches. He expected Quentin’s embarrassment or his insistence that he didn’t need comfort. But not this. He squeezes Quentin close, although they couldn’t be much closer. “Baby,” he says, and he doesn’t know how to follow it up. “You don’t have to – to do anything to deserve comfort. You should always have all the love you need because you’re you, and because I want to give it to you.” 

Quentin looks up at him. He’s still red, and his eyes look glazed. He bites his lip. “Daddy...” he murmurs, voice uncertain. “Eliot...” 

“I’ve got you,” Eliot replies. He kisses the top of Quentin’s head. He doesn’t know what else to do. He rocks Quentin for a moment and then says, “I’d like it if you could promise, baby, to at least try to let yourself look for what you need.” 

Quentin nods. He doesn’t speak, but he lifts one of Eliot’s hands, and slides Eliot’s pointer finger into his mouth. His hot tongue wraps around it as he begins to suck softly. Eliot feels a wave of calm flow through his body as Quentin settles against him. 

Five more minutes. Then he’ll get up.


	36. Chapter 36

Alice isn’t sure what to pack. She’s never been to her aunt’s cottage, and she doesn’t know what books her aunt has out there, or what she’ll need. Are they planning to go hiking? Jogging? What do you do in the country, anyway? 

She asks Julia what she’s packing, but Julia is no help at all, because she doesn’t think she’ll need any books. Which is frankly crazy. Is Julia _really_ a knowledge student? 

They’re travelling by a confusing mixture of portals, and picking up a hire car a few hours away from her aunt’s cottage. Eliot is supposed to meet them at the nearest small town and show them the rest of the way, since the journey to the cottage is convoluted by magic as well as rural geography.

They head out from Brakebills on the first day of the spring vacation. Some of Alice’s trepidation dissipates, because it’s been so long since she’s been away from school, and the sunlight settles against her skin like a promise. She still sits by Penny most of the way, because Penny is grumpy and taciturn, and gives her plenty of space to read or brood. She’s feeling better, but her stomach is still churning, and she’d rather look at a book than join in with Kady and Julia, who seem to be genuinely happy and excited. Is going to hang out with your friends in hiding really going to be that much fun? 

Alice wonders if she should have stayed on campus for the whole vacation. She knows she’s changed and she likes people more than she used to but – does she really like people that much? She comforts herself by thinking that this will definitely be more relaxing than seeing her Mom, but that’s such a low bar she doesn’t feel a lot better. 

They covered the bulk of the distance by magic, but it still involves a lot of waiting for the right moment to travel, and walking from place to place, and Alice’s head starts to ache. The last stretch involves catching a bus – Julia had strongly argued in favour of picking up a rental car right away instead, but Kady and Alice both thought it was safer to use public transport to convolute their trail even further, a decision Alice is now regretting. The bus makes her queasy, and she falls into an uncomfortable doze against Penny’s shoulder. He’s too bony to be comfortable, but he smells pleasantly of home. 

Meanwhile, Julia and Kady are hitting each other every time they see a cow out of the window. Alice kind of hates them.

She’s almost asleep by the time they get to their stop. Penny guides her off the bus, like he thinks she’s going to get lost somehow, but she’s grateful, because it’s hard to wake up, and she nearly falls out of the door. Outside, it’s colder than she expected, and the cold wind hits her in the face. She shivers, but it helps to dispel the nausea. 

Eliot’s there to meet them. He’s smoking, and looks basically the same as always, like he’s trying really hard not to care, but actually cares a lot. It takes Alice a second to spot Quentin, because he’s standing slightly behind Eliot, hunched-up and self-effacing. Alice guesses that it’s reassuring that they haven’t changed. 

“Q!” Julia’s holding her arms out and running towards him. Alice doesn’t blame Quentin for looking a little nervous frankly, because it’s always scary when someone wants to grab you. But he does open his arms for her, and then they hug for a really long time. Quentin tucks his head into Julia’s neck, and Julia strokes his back. They look like they fit together, like this is how they’re meant to be. Julia rocks Quentin a little, and Quentin tangles his fingers in her hair. 

It’s kind of romantic. Alice’s stomach turns over. 

Julia steps back at last, her hands still on his shoulders. She looks up at him. “You look better,” she says. 

“I am better.” He dips his head, not quite meeting her eyes. 

“You’re not shy, are you?” Julia asks. “You can’t be shy, it’s _me!”_

Quentin wriggles a tiny bit. “It’s just... new.” He gestures vaguely, drawing together the town, the bus-stop, and all of them, in one swoop of his hand. 

Kady coughs. “Right. Well, should we pack up the car?” 

Eliot’s rental car is a huge people carrier, that makes Penny snort with laughter and say, “A fucking Honda Odyssey, man? I thought you had style.” 

Alice stumbles towards it, a wave of fatigue sweeping over her. She wishes she had a blanket and a book, and never had to see anyone again. Julia and Quentin are still talking: Quentin holding her hand and staring at her with a kind of adoration Alice is pretty sure she’s never felt for anyone. 

Suddenly, she feels Eliot squeeze her shoulder. “Do you need anything? A drink?” 

She shakes her head, surprised to be asked. 

“You can sit in the car, if you want. You look worn out.” 

She’s too tired to protest, and lets Eliot open the car door for her: she sits in the front seat. She’s vaguely aware that Eliot’s looking at her, but she feels too tired to begin a conversation. Suddenly, there’s a blanket spread over her knees: a soft fleece that smells faintly of Quentin. She wants to protest, throw it off and say she’s fine, but instead she balls her fingers in its warmth. 

She’s not aware of dozing, but the engine starting makes her jump. She jerks upright: she’s on the wrong bus, she’s going to miss her stop, she’s going to be late... 

“It’s OK, keep napping,” Eliot’s voice is calming, but it’s Julia’s hand on her arm that calms her down. 

She leans over from the back seat. “We’ll be at the house soon, and you can have a nap.” 

Alice’s mouth is dry, her head buzzing. She leans back into the seat as Eliot pulls out onto the highway. She wants to acknowledge what they’ve said, but no words come. Julia squeezes her hand again: she hears Kady say something, and Penny snort a laugh. Her eyes are closing again. Maybe she can rest here. Maybe it is safe.

**

After dinner, Kady suggests watching a movie. For the four Brakebills students, TV is kind of a novelty, and Julia, Penny and Kady immediately begin arguing about what to watch. 

Quentin pads upstairs. He needs a moment by himself. He and Eliot are sharing their bed with Margo tonight, and he carefully rearranges the pillows to fit all three of them. When they share, Eliot usually takes the central spot, with Margo snuggling up against him on one side, and Quentin on the other. Quentin puts Barbara the sloth in his spot, and snuggles Lamb to his chest. One of his pacifiers is on the bedside table, and he picks it up too, popping into his mouth. 

As he begins to relax, he feels how tired he is, his eyes fluttering closed. Then his body, which hasn’t been sending him any signals, tells him he’s getting a headache, he needs to go potty, and his jeans are stiff and uncomfortable. He shuffles into the adjoining bathroom to pee, leaving Lamb on the bed, but keeping the pacifier in his mouth. Afterwards, he drinks some water, and takes a Tylenol from the bathroom cupboard. 

He puts the pacifier back on the bed beside Lamb, fully intending to go downstairs like a big boy. But he pauses at the doorway. He can hear conversations overlapping below: Margo, Eliot and Alice are still chatting in the kitchen, while Julia, Kady and Penny are having a loud argument about the benefits of the _Fast and Furious_ movies. He should just push himself downstairs, no matter how anxious he feels. But Eliot told him not to do that, and now he’s got used to feeling safe: not feeling embarrassed for needing his comfort items, knowing Margo and Eliot are always willing to cuddle him and never make fun of him. 

It’s not that weird, he reminds himself. He’s allowed to be himself. 

He puts on his favourite pyjama bottoms, and a pair of Eliot’s extra soft socks, and gathers up Lamb and his paci. He holds it for a second, and then pops it into his mouth before he can start overthinking things.

“Do you want popcorn?” Eliot calls from the kitchen. 

“I think _Gravity_ sounds boring,” Penny is saying in the living room, a pout in his voice. Julia calls that yes they do want popcorn.

Quentin peeks into the kitchen. Alice and Margo are finishing the last of the white wine, while Eliot is getting out microwave popcorn. Margo spots him first. “Oh, hey, kid, we were wondering where you were.” She holds out her arm to him, and Quentin steps over, letting Margo loop her arm around his waist, a warm and comforting squeeze. 

Alice glances at him. Her eyes go wide, and she looks away, staring at the empty wine glass instead. Quentin worries he’s making her feel bad or awkward. He ducks his head down wondering what he should do. The pacifier is so comforting, and he doesn’t think he should feel bad about it. It’s been a big day, and he feels really small. 

Then Margo stands up, guiding Alice towards the living room, and Eliot moves in to hug him. Eliot doesn’t need to say anything for Quentin to feel better. He relaxes into Eliot’s chest, and hears Eliot sigh: a soft exhale of tiredness. It’s going well. But it’s definitely a big day. 

The living room isn’t really big enough to accommodate all of them, but they do their best. Quentin and Alice sit on the floor, at Kady and Eliot’s feet, and Julia folds herself up at the corner of the sofa, while Margo takes the only armchair for herself, and spreads her legs out elegantly. Penny pouts and shifts around and finally settles squashed up beside Kady, his chin on her shoulder. 

They start the movie. 

It takes Quentin approximately five minutes to work out that _Gravity_ stresses him the fuck out. In another twenty, his heart is pounding, and he disentangles himself from Eliot’s legs and heads into the kitchen. It’s dark in here, and he leans gratefully against the wall. Nice and steady. He spits out his pacifier so he can take some deep and careful breaths. 

“I think I need a glass of water.” It’s Alice, standing next to him in the doorway. 

She looks at him, and then, to his surprise, touches his arm, giving him a tiny squeeze. “That movie was...” She pauses. “I didn’t like it.” 

Quentin shakes his head. Swallows. “Yeah. I think it was probably... Good? Like, a good movie? But I didn’t like it, either.” 

Alice pours them both water from the jug in the refrigerator. She puts the glass into Quentin’s hand. They stand there silently, in the dark kitchen. Alice smells like Julia, her scent so tangled with Julia’s that Quentin can’t separate the two. It’s strange, but nice too. 

Quentin tugs at his hair. “Do you want to do a puzzle?” 

He’s been saving a 1000-piece that he picked up in the local store: the box was kind of dusty, and it depicts an ugly castle on a cliff, but it’s complicated enough to be interesting. He and Alice begin sorting the piece. They can hear sounds of the movie – tense music, yelling – but otherwise it’s quiet, and shuffling the pieces is familiar and comforting. 

They sit close together, wordlessly sorting colours. At some point, Quentin puts the pacifier back in his mouth, and the world gets a tiny bit easier. Alice yawns twice, rubbing her face with her hand, but keeps sorting the pieces. After her third yawn, Quentin says, “You can go to bed if you want. It’s all set up.” 

Alice shakes her head. She glances at the living room and says, “I’ll wait.” 

Quiet again. She looks sidelong at Quentin, biting her lip. Then she says, “D-did Eliot get you that...?” 

She doesn’t sound like she’s going to tell him off for being one of _those_ subs the way she might have in the past. There’s an edge in her voice, but Quentin thinks it’s anxiety. 

“Yeah.” He’s holding it in his hand now, so he can speak. “I... I’d kind of always wanted one? But I thought it would be... I don’t know. People already didn’t understand about Lamb.” 

“You mean tops didn’t understand.” 

Quentin shrugs. “N-not just tops.” 

Alice puts down the puzzle piece. “I was a hypocrite, you know. I had Phaedra and I still thought you were dumb for needing Lamb.” 

“It’s OK. You’ve had a hard time.” 

She makes a little sound between her teeth: a hiss of breath. “You shouldn’t... You shouldn’t just _forgive_ people like that.” 

“Why not?” 

“You need to have some kind of self-preservation.” 

She’s angry, but not at him. Her eyes are bright and tired, and her cheeks flushed: she looks like she needs a nap. She doesn’t intimidate him any more. He’s beginning to realise that, actually, he really likes her. 

“I try to take care of myself by... hiding. By trying to escape, by running away.” Quentin looks around at the bright, comfortable kitchen. Eliot has moved the table twice, and bought new lamp shades, and he keeps talking about painting the cupboards. Pine is, apparently, unbearable. At first, being here felt like a kind of running and hiding. But it doesn’t feel like the bad kind of running away. They escaped, and they made something new: they didn’t destroy anything. They’re creating something. “Sometimes it works. Sometimes I just have to – trust people.” 

“Trusting people is crazy.” She folds her arms over her chest, looks at him sidelong. Then admits, “I’ve been doing it, too.” 

“I’d noticed.” Quentin looks down at the stack of puzzle pieces, because he can’t quite meet her eyes. “I’m glad you came, Alice.” 

She scuffs her toes against the floor. “Does it help? The pacifier?” 

There’s a bright edge in her voice: she sounds scared and fascinated. He stands up and goes to the third cabinet along, where Eliot stashed a new packet of pacifiers the last time they did a grocery run. Quentin keeps losing them, and Eliot keeps replacing them. 

He opens the packet and offers one to her. She looks at him. “I don’t...” 

“It’s OK. Eliot and Margo both tried one too, to see what it was like. It’s important to experiment.” 

Alice raises her eyebrows, and takes the pacifier closest to her. It has a tiny unicorn on it. She puts it in her mouth, very suspiciously, as though they’re fourteen and he’s pressuring her into smoking weed. 

Her mouth moves. She takes it out, like she’s been stung, but before Quentin can say anything, she replaces it between her lips. She looks very small, her eyes wide: then the blue of her eyes overspills with tears, and she leans forward, a sob going through her body. 

“Hey,” Quentin’s reaching for her before he can think about it, smelling her distress and wanting to soothe. She makes a little noise, leaning into his body: she’s warm but she’s trembling with emotion, and she presses her face into his chest. 

While Eliot has been redecorating and planning paint colours, Quentin has been scoping out all the safe and cosy places, and making himself hiding spots. There’s one in the kitchen, in a deep closet set into the wall: a den of cushions between the broom and vacuum cleaner. He guides Alice in there. He expects her to resist, but she follows him. She sits beside him on the cushions, holding herself stiff, but when he puts his arm around her, she nestles against him, settling into his chest. She smells brittle and anxious, a hot scent like burnt rubber. He wants to nuzzle at her neck and chest, pet her until she’s calm, but he doesn’t want to push her too far. That she’s allowing him to hold her at all is a big step. 

“See, I’m really good at hiding,” he says as the dark settles around them. 

Alice’s fingers fist in his sweater. 

“It’s OK: pacifiers aren’t obligatory. We never have to talk about it again.” 

He pats her back, her silky hair.

Quiet. A sob. “I... I’m so tired. I don’t – I don’t wanna be Alice all the time. S-sometimes I just want to be like you. I liked y-your paci, I liked the unicorn, it felt nice, but I can’t want things like that, b-because I have to be strong and brave and m- _me_ – I can’t let go...” 

“Alice.” He wonders if he should get Julia. This feels above his pay grade. But Alice is _here_ , and she’s talking to him, and if he fails her now, she’ll never extend her trust to him again. He takes a careful breath. “Alice, it’s OK. Sweetheart.” His voice breaks on the word. Eliot calls him sweetheart, or baby, when he’s upset. “I heard you saved your whole Brakebills class, sweetheart. And you saved me, you helped to get me out of there. And I think... You don’t have to pick one way to be. You’re – you’re the best Magician anyone’s ever met. You’re so strong. And you can be in here, with me, with a pacifier and m-maybe Phaedra, and that doesn’t mean the other parts aren’t true.” 

Alice presses her face into his shoulder. The glasses press a line into his skin. “I’m so tired,” she says at last. “I’m so, so tired, Quentin.” 

“You can take a lot of naps.” He kisses the top of her head: Eliot does that for him, too, and it always helps. “You can take as many naps as you need.” 

Alice sniffs. “You’re being really nice to me.” 

“I like that you’re letting me. Usually I’m the one people have to be nice to.” 

“I know.” She fiddles with his sweater, finally letting go of the handful she grabbed. “D-do you still have it?” 

It takes him a second. “The pacifier?” 

“Mm.” 

“Just a sec.” 

He slips out of the closet, hoping she won’t freak out while he’s away. He snatches the two pacifiers, a glass of water, and Lamb. “Here,” he says, kneeling back in the closet. “You can have Lamb, too. And you might need some water.” 

Alice takes Lamb, nestling her into her chest, and Quentin rearranges the cushions so they can rest back comfortably against the wall. The closet smells of dust and cleaning products, but it also smells of them: a powdery-sweet scent of submissive. Quentin realises that Alice’s scent reminds him of his own, the odours he catches on his pillow or on his t-shirts. He knew Alice wasn’t that different from him, that she had similar needs, but scenting her now makes it clear to him. They’re not the same, but they’re more alike than different. At least biologically. Quentin leans his chin against Alice’s shoulder, and realises she smells like home. 

He hears a tiny sucking sound, replacing the uneven breathing. Alice’s scent begins to calm. He pops his pacifier into his mouth too, and settles his body around Alice. It’s really nice – Quentin hasn’t snuggled with another sub in a long time, and he missed sharing space, the safety and calm. 

He’s not sure how much time has passed when the door opens a crack. Long enough for the movie to have finished up, anyway. 

It’s Julia. She sits back on her heels, looking at them. “Am I disturbing you? Is it a private clubhouse?” 

“You can come in if Alice says it’s OK,” Quentin says. 

Alice nods, and holds her hand out to Julia. A line of light follows Julia into the little den: Quentin can see her observing them, taking in all the details. Then she pushes the door shut with her foot. He’s surprised by how quickly Alice goes to her, crumpling against her. She gives a little shuddery sigh, tucking her head under Julia’s chin. “I’ve got you, lovebug,” Julia whispers. 

She’s only ever called Quentin that before, but he doesn’t mind. He settles easily into Julia’s side, luxuriating in her proximity. She rubs her cheek against his. “Next time,” she says, “You two can choose the movie.” 

Alice makes a soft sound: not a sob, but a deep sigh. 

“She’s really tired,” Quentin says. 

“I want to watch _The Last Unicorn,_ ” Alice says, muffled and indistinct. 

There’s a long silence. “Quentin’s not allowed to watch that,” Julia says. “Because he cried so much.” 

“I’m sure I can handle it better now. I’m more mature.” 

“Q, that was, like, eight months ago,” Julia snorts. 

“’S my favourite,” Alice mumbles. 

“We’ll watch it,” Quentin promises. He can hear voices in the kitchen: sound of footsteps. The door opens a sliver again, and Margo peers in. 

“Julia’s hogging all the subs as usual,” she says. 

Alice wraps her arms around Julia, burrowing into her. Quentin’s never seen her as vulnerable as this before, and he tries to communicate something important to Margo with only his eyes. 

She raises her eyebrows back at him. “I think your Daddy’s looking for you,” she says. 

Quentin squirms his way out – it’s getting very warm in here, and maybe Alice and Julia need some space – but before he goes, he says to Julia, “Take care of Alice.” 

Julia smiles at him: a look that’s both tender and surprised. “Of course.”


	37. Chapter 37

Alice lets Julia coax her upstairs, though part of her wants to remain in Quentin’s dusty closet forever. Even if it smells a little like onions. Julia is talking to her in a tender tone she usually reserves for Quentin, “Come on, lovebug, let’s get you tucked into bed. I’ll be right there. You’re OK.” 

Alice wants to tell her to stop being patronising, but her mind feels blank and fuzzy. When she’s in the bedroom, she realises she’s still got the pacifier in her mouth, and she spits it out, but suddenly being without it makes her feel even more vulnerable. She buries her face in her hands. “Don’t look at me.” 

Julia rubs her back. Alice clenches her teeth: she wants to crawl right back into Julia’s arms, and she also doesn’t want to ever see her again. 

Julia is saying, “You’ve got nothing to be embarrassed about. It’s been a long day – a long month, honestly. We haven’t recovered from Brakebills South yet. It’s OK to feel overwhelmed.” 

“I try so hard not to be like this,” Alice says. She wants to say more, but she thinks she’s going to start crying again if she keeps talking. She can’t – doesn’t seem able to stay upright any more: she falls onto her side on the bed, pressing her cheek against the blanket. 

“You’re perfect.” Julia lies down beside her, spooning her body around Alice’s. 

“What if I was – I was even worse than Quentin?” Alice talks past the sob: her voice comes out clear enough. “What if I wanted a p-pacifier _all the time_ , and I wanted to sit at your feet and have you feed me my meals, a-and I was always seeking your attention so you’d _spank_ me, a-and I needed you to hold my hand all the time and t-take care of me, and...?” She trails off. She can’t think of anything more.

“Quentin wets his pants, too,” Julia says, helpfully. She’s still stroking Alice’s back. 

Alice sniffs. “I could do that too! I could regress! We don’t know! A-anything could happen.”

“Well, you know, it would be OK if you did need help with that too.” 

“No, it wouldn’t!” Alice sits up. “Do you really want someone like that? Like Quentin?” 

Julia sits back up too, taking Alice’s face in her hands, her fingers cool on Alice’s flushed cheeks. “Kiddo. You’re so tired.” 

“Oh, I’m a stupid overtired kid, am I? Nothing I say counts?” She sounds tearful now. She hates herself: the whiny tone in her voice, the neediness. 

“No, but maybe you are kind of a brat.” Julia’s smiling a little, which makes Alice mad. She jerks her head away from Julia. She wants – She wants to cry and scream – She knows that won’t prove Julia wrong: that, in fact, it will prove that she is a brat and an overtired kid, but she’s feeling _so much_ , and she doesn’t know what to do with it. She imagines herself back out on the ice, in the big, blue cold, with nothing to protect her except for her magic. She remembers being a seal, the black water, how she could do anything – 

Where is that Alice now? It’s so hard not to cry. 

“I – I’d like Phaedra,” she says into her lap. 

“OK.”

She hears Julia stand up, unzip the suitcase, and shuffle around. She returns with the stuffed horse. Alice sniffs. She presses her face into Phaedra, like she did when she was a kid. She feels Julia’s arm go around her again. She can smell Julia’s skin: the soothing waft of her pheromones. 

“Alice, I know this is really hard,” Julia says. “I’m probably going to say the wrong thing, because I’m not perfect, and I don’t really know what I’m doing. But I know I – I love you, and I want us to work together and figure out what we can do to help you, OK?” 

Alice wants to snarl at her. Instead she leans against Julia, and nods. “I liked when you were cuddling me,” she says, after a moment. 

They settle back on the bed, Julia nestled around Alice. Her glasses are still on: tear-stained, uncomfortable. She pulls them off, pushing them under the pillow. She leans her chin on Phaedra, and holds Julia’s hand. 

“I’m really proud of you,” Julia says softly. “You’ve been very vulnerable tonight, and I know that’s really hard for you.” 

That’s the kind of thing that usually makes Alice want to hiss. _You’re patronising me; you’re talking to me like a baby._ Except she knows that Julia means it, and it’s maybe kind of true. She squeezes Julia’s hand. 

“You know I have basically the same pheromone profile as Quentin,” she says. “I – I always try to ignore it, but I’m not _just_ a sub, I’m one of those super needy subs, I need – emotional support and physical affection and –”

“I know,” Julia says. “I knew as soon as I met you.” 

She’s quiet for a moment, and Alice wonders if absolutely every dom who meets her knows, and should she die of humiliation right now. 

“But you’re not the same as Quentin,” Julia continues. “I – I’ve known Quentin for so long. It was obvious, from when we were kids, that he was a sub and I was a dom. It was obvious that he – he needed more care than some people. That made a lot of people hurt him, but I liked taking care of him. I liked how brave and strong he made me feel. And I liked that he would surprise people, that he was smarter than almost everyone, that he was so much quicker.” She pauses, thumb rubbing over Alice’s wrist. “I guess I used to think we’d end up together. We tried going out in high school. But I – I know he’s an adult, and I’m proud of his achievements, but – part of me always sees him as a baby. As my kid brother. I can’t deal with him w-wanting me.” She sighs. “I think I’m going off track. When it’s you, Alice, it’s so different. I want you so much. When you kneel for me, or want to eat me out, or – or anything, I’m – I’m so fucking turned on, and I feel so lucky. I’m so lucky that this beautiful sub wants me back, and I...” 

Julia tugs on Alice’s shoulder, making her roll over. They lie face to face. “Are you OK?” Julia asks. 

Alice shrugs. “I don’t know.” 

“It’s not just different because you – get me hot.” Julia bites her lip. She touches Alice’s cheek, and her fingers smooth down Phaedra’s ear. “It’s – We have a completely different dynamic. And yes, I want to protect you and take care of you and be the kind of dom you can trust and love, but that’s because you’re – _you,_ you’re funny and prickly and so fucking smart, and you’re a mystery to me half of the time, and I just – Any time you open up to me is a gift. You might have the same profile as Quentin, but you’re not him.” She meets Alice’s eyes: she looks tired, a little teary. They’re both too emotional today. “And if you want a pacifier, or you need more discipline from me, or you want Kady to tie you up – That’s all fine, sweetheart, all of it. I like you when you’re a terrifying Magician, and I like you when you just want Phaedra.” 

Alice starts crying again. She can’t help it. Julia leans her forehead against Alice’s. Rubs her cheek with her thumb. She lets Alice cry. 

“Y-you might need to say all of that again, so I can write it down, and when I’m scared I can read it,” Alice says. 

“I’ll be there when you’re scared.” Julia pulls her closer, hooking her leg over Alice’s. “I can tell you anytime.” 

“I – I don’t understand doms. I don’t understand what you get out of us.” 

Julia touches her lips to Alice’s cheek, more of a tickle than a kiss. She whispers, close to Alice’s ear, “That’s because you’re a sub. You’re not supposed to understand.” 

Alice sighs. Usually she’d argue with that, but she can’t right now. “I’m so tired, but I don’t think I can ever go to sleep. There’s too much in my brain.” 

“Well, OK: there you might actually be like Quentin. And luckily I’m an expert in that problem.” Julia sits up, pulling Alice with her. “Come on, the first step is brushing our teeth.” 

For once, Alice does what she’s told without complaining. 

**

Eliot likes waking up before Quentin: they usually drift apart in sleep, even if they begin the night cuddling, but when he wakes, he pulls him into his arms, like Quentin’s a giant teddy bear. He allows himself to drift for a while, tucking his chin into Quentin’s shoulder and luxuriates in not having to get up in the dark, or worry about undone homework. 

It’s a little weird not to have an external structure in his life right now. He’s never not had class or a job to go to, and while they’re definitely going to need to worry about money soon, right now the only routine he has is one that he wants. He thought they’d drift into decadence and hedonism, but instead he makes them eat vegetables, and gets Quentin up before noon. He’s a little concerned about turning into the responsible one. 

Today, he reaches for the warm shape beside him, but as he pulls him into his arms, Quentin turns into Margo and says, “Are you groping my boobs?” 

“No? That’s your arm?” 

“Oh.” She yawns. “I thought you were Quentin. I was trying to freak him out.” 

Eliot decides that if he can’t nestle into Quentin, he might as well snuggle Bambi. “You don’t need to try,” he complains. “You already make him nervous.” 

“But he also finds me comforting.” Bambi curls in against him, tucking her butt into the curve of his thigh, and moving his hand so it rests on her stomach. “He’s a confused little guy. Where is he, anyway? Is he letting his Daddies sleep in?” 

“You’re not his Daddy.” 

“I am. I’m a more traditional dad. I don’t change the diapers, but he craves the rare approval I give him. You’re one of those modern helicopter dads.” 

She’s making him laugh, but he still whacks her on the arm. “Stop it.” 

“He’s being quiet. That probably means he’s getting in trouble.” 

“Bambi, he’s twenty-three years old. He’s fine.” 

“Is he, though?” Margo yawns, settling herself on his chest. It’s been too long since they lay like this, just the two of them. Eliot allows his eyes to drift shut: they’ve shared so many beds over the last few years, and he could be in any one of them with her. Time doesn’t matter. 

He probably sleeps, because when he opens his eyes again, the light is much brighter. Quentin sits on the edge of the bed, gently tugging at the blankets. “El? It’s nearly 11, and we made pancakes.” 

Oh, God. “Who’s we?” Eliot asks, worrying about what they’ve done to his cast-iron pan. 

“Alice and me, and then Penny helped. They’ve got chocolate chips and blueberries.” 

Eliot rubs his face. “Both? I’m not sure that’s allowed.” 

“Who says? The pancake police?” 

“Shh,” Margo’s arm stretches out, and she hits the bed covers vaguely, like she’s trying to turn off an invisible alarm clock. “No talking. Breakfast in bed.” 

“Absolutely not.” Eliot is not having this argument again. No sticky foods in bed. He doesn’t have a lot of hard limits, but that’s one of them. He disengages himself from Margo’s embrace, seeking his robe and his cigarettes. 

Quentin’s bright-eyed: he looks excited, happy, somewhat sticky. Eliot was worried about how he’d cope with the others, and he’s pleasantly surprised. But he’s also pleased when Quentin presses himself into his side, tucking his head into Eliot’s shoulder. “Can I come for a smoke with you?” he asks. 

“Of course, baby.” 

Quentin has pretty much replaced cigarettes with pacifiers, but he still smokes when Eliot gives him one. Eliot wonders if he’s being a bad influence. It’s easy to think about quitting when they’re outside together, and he’s bolstered by his first cigarette of the day, looking at the sunlight slanting through the trees. He feels like he could do anything. 

“They’re really good pancakes,” Quentin says after a period of comfortable silence. A pause. “Penny knows what he’s doing.” 

Eliot ruffles Quentin’s hair. He’s never seen Penny in the kitchen, but he seems more likely to know what he’s doing than Quentin or Alice. “Did he come up with the chocolate chip and blueberry recipe?” 

“That was Alice.” Quentin stubs out his cigarette, having only smoked half of it, and yawns. 

“Can I bum one?” Penny joins them. Eliot always forgets how goddamn hot he is. His brain supplies an image of Penny tied up, and he wonders what Kady does to him: does she shove his thighs apart, bite his stomach. 

Eliot’s holding the pack out to him, but suddenly Penny flinches and glares at Quentin. 

“Coldwater. Work on your fucking wards.” Penny draws in a breath through his teeth, a hiss. “I woke up this morning thinking there was a soggy diaper stuck in my asscrack, which was _your fault_ , and if I ever have to experience it again, I swear I...” He rolls his eyes towards the sky, as though he can’t imagine what he’ll do. “I was trying to let that go, though, in the spirit of – of tolerating each other, but I do not need to think about how hot you’d find it if your Daddy spanked me.” Another deep breath. “Jesus fucking Christ.” 

“Hey!” Eliot feels the sleepy, happy mood leaving him at once. Penny can’t talk to his baby like that: who the fuck does he think he is. 

But before he can say anything, Penny is stalking away from them. When he reaches the fence, he launches himself over it. 

“Where are you going?” Quentin calls. His cheeks are flushed pink. 

“Away from you, motherfucker.” He’s striding into the forest, coat swishing behind him. 

God, it’s unfair that someone so hot is such an asshole. 

“Q...” Eliot begins, trying to sort out the twenty different emotions he’s feeling right now. Primarily, anger, a desire to hurt Penny in a way he won’t enjoy, and worry about exactly how freaked out Quentin is right now. 

But Quentin laughs a little, fiddling with his sweater cuffs. “And people call _me_ highly strung.” 

“He’s... He doesn’t get to talk to you like that.” 

Quentin shrugs. “I think that was actually affectionate? For Penny?” 

“You don’t have to brush this off,” Eliot tells him. 

“I know, but...” Quentin’s peeking up at him through his long hair. “I think we’re doing better, actually. He was kind of OK when we were making pancakes. Anyway,” his expression turns a little bratty. “What would you do, tell Kady?” 

“Nope, we’d tell Margo.” 

That makes Quentin laugh. He shuffles a little closer to Eliot, and Eliot leans his chin on the top of Quentin’s head. “I expected you to freak out more.” 

“I...” There’s a long silence. A cloud covers the sun, and the leaves on the chestnut spin in the breeze. “I feel safe here. I know Penny’s just being a dick because he’s Penny. It’s not about me.” 

Eliot squeezes his shoulders. He feels proud, suddenly, his chest brimming. “You’re right, baby.” 

“I should – probably fix my wards though.” 

“Yeah. I’ll try one of the pancakes, and then we’ll do some remedial ward strengthening.” 

Eliot links their hands as they walk back inside. “It totally would be hot if I spanked Penny.” 

“I’m honestly not sure he wouldn’t end up spanking _you,_ ” Quentin says.


	38. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter of this fic, but I do hope to continue this verse. I am very very invested in this little family! Thank you to my wonderful wife and beta **capeofstorm** for going over all of this, to **yourtinseltinkerbell** for inspiring, encouraging and helping me, and to YOU, thank you so much for reading, kudosing and commenting: you helped me to keep writing, inspired me, and made me feel so much less alone. I appreciate it so much.

Alice has never believed in taking naps: it’s a waste of valuable time. But there’s something about being here that’s made her bed irresistible. There are three bedrooms in the house, and she and Julia have the smallest. It’s starting to feel like home to her: Phaedra’s on her pillow, and Julia’s clothes are scattered on the floor and chair. She’s grown familiar with the view of sky and trees she sees when she’s lying in bed. She imagines framing pictures of horses and putting them on the walls, or hanging crystals to catch the morning light. 

Over the last week, none of them have done very much, which would normally drive her crazy. They usually sit down together for at least one of their meals, and often some of them go for a hike in the surrounding countryside. They’ve done a little cooperative spellwork, mostly to keep a handle on their wards, and discussed some future projects, but basically it’s just been days of – hanging out. Sleeping. Watching TV. Occasionally making out. 

It’s terrible. It’s exactly the kind of wasteful nonsense that has always made Alice feel itchy and unhappy. She uses her time well, and gets important things done. But suddenly she loves it. 

She’s dozing after a hike when hunger drags her out of bed. She can see from her bedroom window that Penny, Eliot and Kady are all outside: smoking and sharing beers, and chatting. They look relaxed, Penny’s legs stretched out in front of him, one of his feet resting on Kady’s thigh. Eliot’s laughing at something. She realises there was never anyone she wanted to waste time with before, except for Charlie. 

The house is quiet: Quentin, Margo and Julia practically came to blows over a children’s book series when they were out earlier, so she’s glad that’s over. She gets crackers and peanut-butter from the kitchen, and stands in the doorway to the living room. Eliot’s been keeping the kitchen tidy, but the living room is messy with books and board games and discarded coats. Quentin and Julia have pulled the cushions off the couch and made a nest on the floor. 

Quentin’s always making little cosy dens for himself. You can’t open a closet in this house without finding another hiding place. It’s kind of sweet. 

She’s not sure about disturbing them. Over the years so many kids had rolled their eyes at her or told her to go away that the moment of greeting someone makes her stomach turn over. She keeps her defences high. But when Quentin and Julia spot her, their eyes light up, and they immediately make room between them: not only do they want to see her, but also they want her at the centre. 

It’s a lot. 

“Did you have a good nap?” Julia asks, smoothing back Alice’s hair. 

Alice nibbles her cracker. “I was just dozing. I don’t know why I’m tired.” 

“You’ve been working hard,” Julia says. “You probably depleted a lot of your magical energy when we were in Brakebills South, too.” 

No one has ever encouraged Alice to relax before. She wonders if it’s obvious, because they all keep giving her cosy blankets and telling her not to get up, like they’re trying to make up for lost time. It’s weird. 

“You should chill while you can. You’ll be back in Brakebills soon,” Quentin agrees. 

Julia reaches over to whack his wrist. “Shut up, Q. We don’t say the B-word.” 

“Hey.” Quentin pokes her in the arm. “You could drop out, like the clever people.” 

“He keeps encouraging me to be a delinquent,” Julia says to Alice in a conspiratorial tone. “It’s awful.” 

“You’re not planning to, are you?” Alice says. She’s surprised by how afraid she feels, suddenly: she was so ready to drop out of school, but now she can’t imagine not going back. But she doesn’t know if she actually _can do it_ without Julia. Or without Kady, or Penny. 

But Julia shakes her head. “No way. Have you _seen_ the library? Besides, someone has to get a traditional education and hook our friends up with the good spells.” 

Quentin shrugs. “We’ll figure them out on our own.” 

Julia snorts. “It’s OK to need a _real_ Magician sometimes, sweetheart.” 

“You’re an asshole. I’m actually a lot better at spellwork now that I can work by myself. Turns out an abusive learning environment isn’t actually the best way to reach your potential.” 

Julia’s quiet for a second. Then she says, “Fair enough. But once you’ve run out of what Margo and Eliot can teach you, you’ll need us again.” 

Quentin flexes his fingers: a half-formed tut, not going anywhere. “Maybe. There’s a lot of magic outside of Brakebills – we saw a little of it in New York, when we worked with the Hedges. There’s more that we don’t know about yet. We can create our own world without that... bullshit.” 

Alice nibbles another cracker. “What do you mean by bullshit?”

“The rules. About who gets to do magic, and how. The way the school forces us out, people like you and me. Makes it almost impossible for us.” 

“You’d give magic to anyone who wanted it?” she asks. Which sounds like the kind of crazy thing he would do. 

“I don’t think that many people are going to look for it. And if they are, they probably need it. I wish I could...” He spreads his fingers, as though trying to hold onto something he can’t see. “Make a place where people could find the answers they needed. Where Brakebills drop-outs could wash up without feeling like they’d failed.” 

Julia’s leaning on her elbow, looking at him thoughtfully. “That’s kind of a nice idea. It would be a big project, though.” 

“I know.” Quentin’s forehead wrinkles. “And what the Hell do I know. I can barely get myself dressed in the morning.” 

“No, I like it,” Julia says. “There are a lot of details to iron out, but it’s good. Quentin’s Home For Lost Magicians.” 

Quentin snorts. “OK, I definitely wouldn’t read that book.” 

“If you start arguing about – about this _Granny Weatherwax_ again, I will curse you both,” Alice says. “If you want to do it, Q, you’ll need to figure out your strategy. I wonder if you could apply for a small business loan.” 

“A small business loan?” Quentin asks. “We’re Magicians, Alice.” 

“You’ll still need to eat,” she says. 

They spend the rest of the afternoon drawing up plans on a yellow legal pad Quentin finds at the bottom of his messenger bag. Quentin and Julia seem accustomed to working out ideas together, lying side by side on their stomachs, throwing pens at each other, and drawing diagrams with too many arrows. Alice sits slightly apart, trying to pull them back from their silliest ideas. Neither of them is remotely practical, but the way they make each other laugh begins to make her laugh too. 

** 

“Do you really think he could do it?” Alice asks much later. She’s leaning against the pillows in their bed, watching Julia go through her bedtime routine. 

Kady’s looking through Julia’s suitcase for clean underwear. “I guess I’ll have to do laundry,” she says, voice bleak. 

Julia stops rubbing moisturiser into her wrists and neck. “I already washed some stuff of yours. Fuck, I think it’s in the dryer. I forgot about it.” 

Kady stretches long arms, shirt riding up to expose a line of stomach. “Whatever, I’ll get it tomorrow.” She sits on the bed beside Alice, and rests her hand casually on Alice’s thigh, which is under the covers, so it shouldn’t matter, but it’s still surprising to Alice every time someone touches her as though it’s not a big deal. 

“Quentin’s always been...” Julia thinks, screwing the lid back onto the moisturiser. It takes Alice a second to realise she’s answering her earlier question. “When he gets passionate about something, he can be really – smart and enthusiastic and focused. But his brain – isn’t always good to him.” She smooths a brush through her hair. “Eliot’s good for him though. It’s funny, I didn’t think he would be at first, I just thought he’d be a – distraction.” 

“I think he probably _is_ a good distraction,” Kady says. She lies beside Alice, on Julia’s side of the bed. After a moment, Alice stretches out too, looking over at Kady. 

“I think it kind of is a good idea – to make a safe place like that,” Alice says. “Although – I don’t know, magic isn’t ever safe.” 

“How much of that is actually magic, though,” Kady says, “And not just Magicians being fucking dicks to each other?” 

“You have a good point,” Julia says. She’s lying down on the other side of Alice, so Alice has to shift over towards Kady in order not to be jabbed by one of Julia’s incredibly bony knees or elbows. “I wouldn’t start the paperwork on the small business loan yet, Alice. But maybe over the summer.” 

“Oh, we’ll probably be busy this summer,” Kady says. “Brakebills will have something horrible for us to do.” 

“I’m sure we get vacation,” Julia says, and then looks at Alice. “Don’t we?” 

“I think summer is when we’re supposed to work on magical internships,” Alice says. 

Kady groans. “I’m going to be really bad at that.” 

“Maybe we can claim working with Quentin is an internship,” Julia says. 

Alice and Kady both snort. “I am absolutely not working for Coldwater,” Kady says, “And also, remember how he’s in hiding?” 

Julia shrugs. “I know, but we could... lie.” 

“Sometimes I wonder why we think you’re the smart one,” Kady says. She’s nestled into Alice, her breath warm against Alice’s cheek. Julia’s arm stretches over both of them. 

“Are you spending the night?” Julia asks her. 

“No, Penny will miss me too much.” She looks so self-satisfied as she says it that it makes Alice smile. 

Alice yawns. She feels so safe in between Julia and Kady: a wave of warmth spreads through her, and she wants to nuzzle into both of them, rub her face against them, in this tiny den. Her hands fists in Kady’s shirt, and her eyes begin to close. Kady kisses her cheek. “God, she’s so cute. I should leave before she falls asleep.” 

“Don’t talk about me like I’m not here!” Alice complains. Kady’s leaning over her to kiss Julia’s cheek, completely ignoring Alice. Julia tilts her head slightly, and Alice watches them kiss, slow and deep, just inches from her own face. Her toes curl. 

“Sleep well, little princess,” Kady says as she sits up again. 

“Don’t call me that,” Alice mumbles. Kady grins at her, and pats her butt before she wriggles out of bed. 

“Good night!” Julia calls, turning the light off. She snuggles into Alice, tucking her hand under Alice’s shirt, her warm fingers settling against Alice’s skin. “Are you pouting?” she says, nudging Alice with her chin. “Is it Kady’s fault?” 

“I don’t care if you tease me,” Alice says.

Julia snorts. “Oh, kid. No one believes that.” 

It’s almost true, though: Alice does like it when Kady and Julia tease her. She also likes pouting and having them coax her back into a good mood. She feels weird about it though, guilty, like she’s being manipulative, or like her Mom. That thought makes her shake herself, and she turns onto her side, putting her arm around Julia’s waist. “I really don’t care,” she says, nudging Julia with her nose. “I know it’s because it’s the only way you doms know how to express affection.” 

She’s pleased when Julia laughs. “You’re such a good girl, Alice Quinn,” Julia says. 

“No, I’m not.” Alice hates that she feels another wave of warmth, because her dom told her she was good.

“Don’t argue,” Julia says. She passes Alice Phaedra, who had ended up on Julia’s side of the bed. Alice carefully puts Phaedra beside her on the pillow, on the other side from Julia. 

“Do you want this?” Julia holds out the pacifier that Quentin had given her. Alice keeps trying to get rid of it, to convince herself she doesn’t want it, but she can’t bring herself to throw it out. It makes her feel safe, the way this bed makes her feel safe, this little house, this place where everyone cares about each other. 

Alice takes it from Julia. She doesn’t put it in her mouth: she just holds it, knowing the possibility is there. 

**

“Put the baby in the middle,” Margo says, digging her elbow into Eliot. Quentin is snuggled up on Eliot’s other side, holding Lamb, in his flannel pyjamas, and he doesn’t really feel like he can complain about being called the baby. 

“I’m comfortable,” Eliot says. He removes Margo’s elbow from his ribs, and tries to arrange her into his arms instead. 

“Stop it: I feel like I’m going to kill the next dom I see. It’s Kady’s fault. But we need Quentin as a buffer.” 

“OK, OK.” Eliot gets up, and Quentin finds himself tucked against Margo’s chest, her arm over his stomach, while Eliot settles down in his former spot. 

“Why do you want to kill Kady?” Quentin asks. 

Margo groans. “She always thinks she knows best. She’s always – taking charge. Doing things _her_ way. Instead of _my_ way. And she won’t stop arguing with me, and not in a cute way, like Alice.” 

Eliot laughs. “Poor Bambi can’t deal with any challenge to her authority,” he says to Quentin. 

“But you’re a dom, too,” Quentin says. “Why don’t you bug her?” 

“He does.” Margo sighs. “But he’s a nurturing dom, and I’m a real dom, and we work it out.” 

Eliot doesn’t argue that he’s also a real dom. He just smiles at Quentin and lifts his eyebrows slightly.

Margo nuzzles into Quentin’s neck. “Oh, you smell so much better than Eliot. It’s like when you go to a perfumery, they give you coffee beans to smell between each scent as a cleanser. You’re coffee.” 

Quentin squirms a little. “...Thanks?” 

“She’s just saying you’re a nice, good boy,” Eliot says. 

“I’m saying we could package him and sell him to stressed-out tops. Or anyone who’s met Kady,” Margo says. 

“Q’s not for sale.” Eliot pokes Margo’s shoulder. She bares her teeth at him. 

“I’d let you,” Quentin says. “Sounds like a good way for me to contribute.” 

Eliot is quick to reassure him, like it’s a real suggestion: “You contribute in lots of ways. And I liked your idea about a safe-house.” 

“Not this again.” Margo tweaks Quentin on the nose. “Don’t encourage him, El. We’re not adopting fifty orphan magicians.” 

“That’s not what I’m asking!” Quentin says. 

“Shh, sleep time for babies. We’ll talk about getting you a puppy in the morning.” Margo pets his hair. 

“Bambi, stop teasing him.” 

Margo shrugs: Quentin can feel it against his back, a slight ripple. “He likes it.” 

Quentin presses his chin into Lamb. “I do like it.” 

He’s not entirely sure why this makes both Eliot and Margo start laughing, but he likes how they seem to relax. Something in his stomach unclenches, and he settles into the warm nest of limbs. 

“I thought it was a good idea, Q,” Eliot says, when they’ve stopped laughing. “With some rough edges to sand down.” 

“It sounds like a lot of work for people who aren’t us,” Margo says. “Which is not my jam.” 

“I think it could be your jam. You used to talk about the magical hospitality industry.” 

“I’m going to sleep,” Margo says, and presses her nose into Quentin’s neck, pulling the covers over both of their heads. 

Quentin works his face out again, so he can breathe. “It’s OK, El. Julia and I come up with about six ideas a week.” 

“I like that you’re having ideas,” Eliot says. Quentin smiles. He likes that he’s having ideas too. He’s about a thousand miles away from the path he expected to be on. Well, he’s not sure he even thought he’d find a path, or keep on going. But he really likes where he is. For the first time he can remember, he’s looking forward to figuring out what will happen next.


End file.
